Disclaimer: The characters here are from Weiss Kreuz, an anime. All rights to Weiss Kreuz related materials belong to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. This fan fiction is written purely for entertainment purposes towards no financial returns. However, this short story is still an original work and should not be replicated in any form without prior consent of the author. The above is simply an alias. Please contact venyal@pacific.net.sg for more details. Comments are most welcome.



Somewhere from above came the muffled sound of a bedpost scrapping its way unceremoniously across the floor. Aya's thin lips curled slightly in distaste. Couldn't the man be less energetic in announcing his dalliances to his colleagues? Small wonder Youji rarely departed his bed before noon. Aya pushed the uninvited inane thought out of his mind and focused on the flower arrangement before him.



Violet eyes narrowed as they surveyed every leaf and petal. Deft hands adjusted the layerings of baby's breath - smoothening out some awkward protrusions while accenting the interplay of foliage at other parts of the arrangement. Behind him, the cooler hummed its monotonous melody, its only audience oblivious to all but what laid before him. Aya proceeded to insert blue roses atop the prepared bed of baby's breath. His hands pierced the stems through the hard sponge methodically, assigning the stalks to a precision blueprint laid out in his mind. A left hand reached out for a duo of larkspurs, and these were treated with unaccustomed gentleness to be inserted into the sponge. Pale lips creased faintly as he mentally chided himself for not arranging the larkspur first ahead of everything else and slowly manoeuvred the fine wisp-like leaves of the larkspur past the jagged stalks of baby's breath. The most delicate of tasks now done, he added with ceremony the final stalks of baby's breath. Aya leaned backwards on his outstretched right heel, eyes scrutinizing his efforts of the past two hours. The roses laid gently in a perfume of baby's breath, with a concentration of the latter forming a feathery buffeting base. The roses led gently upwards, with a sudden crescendo towards the larkspurs. Other harmonizing herbs peppered the arrangement, giving a sense of English rusticity. However, something was still missing. Searching eyes scanned every inch of the arrangement, the perfectionist in him seeking the offending area that had upset the balance. There. A slight gap between roses had broken the tight syncopation of the arrangement. He turned to open the cooler door absently, and quickly pulled out a small stalk of baby's breath, taking care to support the fragile stem between his thumb, index and forefinger. He pivoted back towards the object of his attention. Stabilising the base with his free hand, he slowly slipped the slim stalk into its designated position.


The muscles in his hand contracted involuntarily, the brief tightening of the fingers sufficient to snuff out the tenuous thread of life that sustained the small blossoms. The bepetaled embryo of flowers tumbled gracefully through the air unto the table. A fitting name mocked at its entirely appropriate end. Aya pursed his lips slightly, hands frozen in mid-thought. The closing of the cooler door had sounded preternaturally loud at 2 a.m. in the morning and he had let himself be distracted. His eyes moved to rest on the small white tumble of flowers that barely touched the table, the strength in the truncated stem valiantly resisting the inevitable. Soon the stem would wilt and the rest of the blossoms would be lowered to the surface.

How fragile is life. His hands moved and hovered above the flower grave, unwilling to intrude on the quiet dignity that was the flower. And what is the use of dignity when one's life blood collects in a pool below you? There is no dignity in dying. You, little flower, are beautiful for now, but soon enough...Unbidden images of Targets choking on their life blood came to mind. Some had looked imploringly at him as though he alone could reverse time, these were the worst. He would rather suffer their accusing looks, the blankness of incomprehension or the rage of realisation. No, you may be beautiful now, but there is no beauty in dying either. Die now little flower, it'll be easier for both of us. Although his mind voiced this, he knew that it would be at least two days before all evidence of life faded from the small life before him.

Aya bent forward, wanting to register the presence of the fallen stalk more fully. His keen nose picked up the timid sweetness that clung close to the blossoms. They were but three inches away from his face. The fragrance reminded him of his imouto, of the times when he would accompany her to the park in Spring. She would pull him impatiently if she felt that he was not making an effort to walk fast enough, or when she wanted him to look at another bed of flowers that had bloomed magnificently in Spring. Impishly, she would tease him on the coppery-redness of his hair and proceed to adorn that fiery crown with a flower of similar colour. She never succeeded of course. Ran wouldn't let her. But Aya would.

Too late. Aya ignored the words caused by a leaden block of emotions within. He stilled the conflux of emotions that threatened to resurface. Aya-chan was as still as the blossoms before him, clothed in the same whiteness. As fragile...... like all the other lives I have taken. An image of Aya-chan with sad, accusing eyes clouded his vision. Don't look at me that way. He felt the emotions within him begin to contort out of whatever rational explanations he had held them in. Reflexively, he pulled the plug on his Self, letting his feelings swirl away like dirty water from a kitchen sink.


Aya whirled around without realising where he was, his posture falling into a defensive stance. Regaining his orientation, he relaxed slightly only when he realised who the intruder was. He knew that he should feel embarrassed of his mistaken reflexes but was somehow unable to do so. The tall blonde man stood but a hand's length away, looking past Aya's shoulder at the blue-themed arrangement. Either he had chosen not to notice Aya's passing defensive stance or had seen enough of his colleague's sometimes irrational antics to question it further. Youji was only half-dressed in heavy silk drawstring-trousers. His face appeared tired and drawn as he leaned slightly on one hip, left hand bridging across the naked abdomen to support a hand cradling a cigarette. The smoke from his cigarette twirled sympathetically before his tousled, wavy hair.

White. The cigarette was white. There was something about a weary Youji puffing away his youth on a white stick that was deeply disturbing. Whiteness of clinical sheets. Whiteness of flowers. No. Youji was simply and oversexed creature that had finally found the limits of his capability.

Aya turned back to the table, right hand swiftly pulling out the bare stem that he had earlier half-buried in the sponge. He stooped, lifted the small fluff of baby's breath, and cupped it in the shelter of his left hand in one fluid motion. He then turned around a final time to walk past Youji, past the stairs leading to their bedrooms, and towards the back entrance.

"Doko e ikimasuka?" asked a surprised voice.

Aya did not even pause.

"San po."

Sex was supposed to be soporiferous. This statement rang true for his lover, whose features appeared all the finer in this relaxed state. She slept on her side, dark hair fanning haphazardly across the pillow. He had met her earlier at a mutual friend's party. The friend in question being one of his few acquaintances of reputable bearing, he had promptly turned his charms upon this certain guest, who had on first appearance seemed innocently unaware of the sexuality that she was exuding. Later that night, he had found out that she was not quite the uninitiated and he had thrown all caution to the wind.

He had laid, empty and spent. Then just empty. Contrary to popular belief, the girls that he had bedded weren't all one-night stands. A year ago there was Hanami, a love interest that lasted a little over a month. And just after that, he would not have brought back anyone he hadn't known for at least a fortnight or so. But now...

Sleep being obviously long in coming, he silently shifted his weight onto the floor and made his way past a forgotten pile of clothing to pull out a fresh pair of light brown drawstring-trousers from the wardrobe. He stopped momentarily as he caught a reflection of himself in the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe door. A gaunt face looked back at him, dark circles beginning to form below its eyes. I look like hell. His lungs itched irritably. I need a smoke. And a meal, if only to prevent all the girls from running away from me instead, he thought wryly.

He hurriedly dressed and walked noiselessly towards the door. As he reached for his packet of cigarettes and lighter on the reading table, he noticed that the table had moved closer to the door recently. No, it was the bed that had moved away from the reading table and not otherwise. A hollow satisfaction noted the record distance of 4 inches. It would have been more had not the bed been against the wall. His lovemaking of late had taken on a note of almost religious fervency, exhausting his partners to immediate sleep. As he closed the door behind him, he was overcome with a sense of lethargy.

Youji set the microwave for three minutes and lit up a cigarette. He had noticed Aya in the shop but had decided to prepare his meal first. With that undertaking resolved, he walked out of the backroom, needful of a distraction from the monotony of himself.

Aya stood a short distance beside a simple white plate-vase that held a painstakingly executed arrangement. The fluorescent light of the cooler formed a white hazy outline on his matched black outfit. As Youji moved closer to the arrangement, he could see that even the addressing angle of the blue roses had been thoroughly considered through all seriousness that was Aya. Youji particularly favoured the upswept climax towards the twain of larkspurs.


Straight red hair whipped the empty air as Aya spun around. The whites of his eyes were too prominent, and his irises had turned into lavender pinheads in the harsh light. The white light from the cooler illuminated his already fair skin mercilessly, forming contrasting shadows that melted into the black of his turtleneck. The expression in those eyes alone was at odds with his indoctrinated defence stance. Just as suddenly, his eyes narrowed to resume his patented guarded air and he straightened into a more relaxed position.

Youji understood the defensive stance; he had quite startled Aya once before when he had moved too silently. But what was that look he had seen? He had seen it somewhere else, but it seemed incongruous on Aya's face. His mouth parted to ask whether Aya was all right, but the question died in his throat as Aya presented his back to him. As his mind scrambled to place the missing pieces in the puzzle, he realised that Aya had already walked past him and was closing the distance to the back door. Where the hell is he going at 3.30am?

An uttered question met with a brusque response of "Walk."

Somewhere between them, the microwave beeped.

"Aya, wake up."

Aya snapped to full alertness as the muffled voice was followed quickly by insistent rapping on his bedroom door. He covered the distance to the door in a few wide strides to pull open the door roughly. Outside stood the brunette youngster, eyebrows shot up in surprise, hand half-ready to knock the door that wasn't there all of a sudden.

"Ah, Aya... the guys asked me to get you up. It's eleven and we already have a crowd downstairs." Ken stuttered, unprepared for Aya's gruff demeanour.

"I'm up."

Closing the door rudely on the Ken, Aya had slight misgivings for having treated his colleague so. But that couldn't be helped. He was already irritated with himself for having slept to this hour. He remembered walking the streets last night, feeling very cold. And he remembered running, running around the neighbourhood, into the park, running until his body heated up from the exertion, and then running even when the exertion wasn't enough to keep him warm anymore. He unclenched his fists. He hadn't realised they had been clenched all this while. He felt something in his left hand and opened it, palm ceilingwards.

In the heart of his hand rested a browning stem of baby's breath, devoid of all petals.

Amethyst eyes became slit-like behind the visor. The restriction of his vision was disconcerting, but he was of no mind to ponder such a triviality. He brought his katana to a double-handed grip, bearing the blade in a perfectly vertical line, suggesting that the blade should cleave through Takatori as such. During the space of a few heartbeats, he stared at his nemesis, both of them immobile killing machines. Aya's side throbbed wickedly where Takatori's elbow had connected. There was little doubt that a conclusion was about to be drawn. He would extract revenge for his sister.

The air moved. Without warning, Aya was sprinting towards his adversary, body leading, cutting through the air with his katana hilt-first at the side. His limbs felt dull and heavy, worn-out from the extended combat. As he closed the distance, he drew the blade in an upward feint, seeing a redness that needed to slice through Takatori's skull in the empowered downward stroke. Finally, an end to all the killing. His vocal chords strained to emit a deafening battle cry.

"Shi ne!!"

He had underestimated his archenemy. Takatori read the feint, rapidly lowered himself while beginning a spin whose momentum was channelled into a sweeping right leg. The sweep caught Aya at the exact moment when he began to leap into the air. He toppled heavily like a fallen trunk, barely executing a break fall. He glanced up to see Takatori's sword ready to crush his windpipe.

Iie!! Like a dog cornered, his eyes stared resolutely ahead, giving no evidence of his right hand scrambling blindly to find purchase on his katana. His hand closed on a round rod. When the sword point did not waver, he swung his right hand in an arc, praying that whatever he was holding was long enough. The impact of the wooden sword on the left calf translated into a sickening crack and Takatori collapsed onto the floor. Aya felt little satisfaction.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Meaningless pleas. Takatori moved a hand to tear off his visor. All the better, Aya wanted to see the same pain that his sister had suffered in Takatori's face as he died.

Visor? Was he wearing a visor as well? He looked down to see his hand holding the wooden sword he had used. Where had the wooden sword come from? He quickly looked up again, afraid that Takatori had moved. He struggled to see past the bloodlust that had earlier consumed him. The brunette man who was cradling a broken leg was not entirely unfamiliar. But he was not Takatori. Aya seemed to have seen those roughish features before, especially the stubby jaw. Then pieces clicked at the back of his mind - he was in a dojo, practicing with a sparring partner, Shoten. He became instantly aware of the weight of the body amour, and was suddenly glad that Shoten had insisted on wearing some form of body padding. His mouth twitched upward at the thought, although he knew how out of place it must seem given the gravity of the situation. It had been too close.


Once again he hurried towards the exit. Carrying a ghost of that smile that kept him from being the other broken man.

It was many hours after the mission. A lean but well-muscled arm shook the Kirin can lightly. The remnants of the beer swirled loosely at the bottom of the can. With a sigh, he set it down on the edge of the bath. Well, at least there's still some cigarettes left. He took a long drag on a stump, stubbed it on the second makeshift ashtray and promptly lit another. The water was rapidly turning lukewarm, and Youji lowered himself further into the water, bending his long legs in the process of doing so. His olive eyes were thoughtful as they looked towards the ceiling.

As the water lapped at the sides of the bath gently, Youji tuned his concentration to the discomfort that was within. He could not pinpoint the emotion or the reason for its existence, and only knew that it was somehow tied in with all his recent relationships. He had no explanation for the current spate of his love life either. He was certain that he looked no different from the Youji that had dated Hanami; in fact, his muscles are now better toned. So why? Had all the eligible females been plucked out of existence? He reviewed the sequence of recent events. Before Tsuka there was Utada, whose false golden-haired beauty attracted him all the same. Till now, he had never called the number she left. Prior to Utada had been Ayaka, a soft-spoken secretary who had asked him up for coffee after he had sent her home. He went up once and had never gone back since. What was her name? The one with all the hair and hourglass figure. Ah, yes, Mana. The one who proved that brawns indeed didn't go with brain. Except for his own case of course. Too bad Hanami wanted too much out of the relationship. Otherwise, it had been quite fun. Naoko, Kumiko and yes Rachel.... the dark raven-haired beauty who had a stamina to match his, into whose breasts he could bury his face and not see the light of day. No, his bedroom skills were not in question either.

As he traced through the apparently endless list, he felt no pride at his numerous conquests. It was purely a mental exercise, and he was undeniably empty within. He knew that he could still seduce and bed whomever he set his eye upon. But all their lovemaking had been lacklustre; primal at best and mechanical at worst. Like a highly skilled student going through the same series of warm-up exercises for the past ten years. Romping around with Hanami had been fun, but there had been no lasting....satisfaction. That was it wasn't it? I'm looking for something, but I can't find it. Something that will make it disappear, the damned empty feeling. With that half answer, he climbed out of the bath to towel himself dry. Shoulder length hair still matted against the back of his neck, he wrapped the towel around him loosely, and left the toilet in search of more alcohol. Not caring in the least what Omi would say about floating ashes on bathwater.

A pattern of redness shifting across his eyes. They dropped out of his view and then back again. He knew he was somehow responsible for that movement, or for that redness. Again the red form shifted in and out of his line of sight. A brief stinging pain. He beheld something white, then in moments, rich redness began to pour forth from that whiteness, an intense blood red that caused the pale redness of before to fall into darkness. The blood pooled around him as he stood rooted, and finally, the redness covered him. It was unexpectedly cold.

"What's with Aya-kun? Isn't his shift over?"

Omi had just gotten back from school, with ample time before his shift at Koneko no Sumu Ie. Ken had been his usual industrious self as the schoolboy stepped into the shop. Outside, giggling schoolgirls thanked the gods for their good fortune at seeing the four bishounen together. Omi noticed a blush starting in Ken's down turned face as he tried to ignore the furiously batting eyelids of an under aged teenage girl who was waiting for her bouquet. Thankfully, his brown locks shielded him from the worst of it.

Aya was facing the worktable, his back view partially obscured by Youji who stood behind the counter and lacked his usual cigarette. He was dressed in a mauve, v-neck sleeveless shirt with stark white pants, looking more complementary as a flower ornament than the florist he was supposed to be. True enough, several females have been as attracted to this certain ornament as to the flowers in the shop and were now actively flirting with him. He tried to pass off watering the twice watered ferns as work while effortlessly making each female think that she had his utmost attention. He would break many hearts at the end of the day.

Omi's unruly mob of blonde hair turned this way and that as he struggled past the exclusively female clientele to the counter. Amidst all the activity, he noticed that redhead in his signature orange turtleneck had not moved a hair. Curious, he voiced the question.

Youji turned around and too noticed Aya standing stock-still. He walked the few steps separating them until he stood almost directly behind the slightly shorter man.

"Aya?" he probed in a low voice.

"He's just helping out. Not enough hands," replied Ken, almost shouting across the din.

As Youji moved past the silent Aya to the side of the worktable, stalks of poinsettias strewn across the table caught his notice. He frowned. What's wrong with him? He glanced upwards to Aya's face. It was those eyes again. The same look he saw that night in the passing. Except that this time, Aya's violet irises were frozen for far too long, his eyes obviously not seeing even the wall before him. His complexion was unnaturally pale. To the right, his index finger was raised to eye level, and a nasty gash that showed to the bone was bleeding furiously. It was this sight that had so transfixed Aya. Dammit, what's wrong with him? Frantic for a flicker of life, he shook Aya roughly by the shoulders.

"Samui." Cold.

"Aya-kun, what happened to your finger?" screeched a concerned Omi, who had crossed the workplace and was now flanking his other side. He wore an openly worried look and his hands had already reached out to nestle

Something within those eyes thawed and Aya's head jerked slightly, causing his single, thin rod earring to dance about erratically. Youji was relieved to see him blinking. His face had taken on a different mask of impassivity but now he was blurrily aware of a very disturbed Omi beside him. It's not a mask. He's in shock. Youji realised with a lurch in his stomach. Imperturbable Aya and Shock did not digest well together in his system.

Then, it hit him all at once.

He remembered where he had seen that look before. It had often twisted the faces of countless bodyguards who had gotten between Weiss and the Targets. It was the look of one walking a tightrope between pain and insanity. One was often the cure for the other.

But why? For the second time, his unexpressed question was answered with Aya's retreating back, pulled by a motherly Omi in tow.

Again and again he rammed into her, the repeated passage of his sex spreading the natural lubrication generously. He felt the body beneath him arch, and when the already tight passage pulsed rhythmically, he emitted a low guttural moan. Yet again her breasts thrust out enticingly to him, beseeching him to envelope them in the warm wetness of his mouth. He lowered himself to take in the left nipple, licking the head slowly, then with increasing speed and suction. The recipient of the pleasure rolled her head backwards, exposing a bare expanse of neck that was soon graced with a trailing tongue. She writhed under him as he increased the frequency of his thrusts, one hand wrapped entangled in his thick hair, and the other inevitably around his rump, urging him to increase the speed of his thrusts. Youji's chest heaved in deep breaths as the lithe body gasped even faster breaths below him. His erection hardened further, aroused by the heaving bosom. Finally, body plastered to body, they moved, matching the tightening and slackening of his muscles that gyrated his hips back and forth. He felt her contracting and a pleasurable whiteness passed through him as she shuddered once, then twice. He ceased his thrusts, knowing that he might spill his seed anytime now. But he needed more. With a firm resolve, he let the intense pressures in his groin pass through an empty climax. As the last of the throbbing subsided, he slowly began to move along the length of the passage again. Underneath him, Hanae's eyes opened widely in slow understanding.

He focused his awareness inwards, fully feeling his shaft picking up a second sensitisation after an over-saturation. He moved slowly, the slight friction causing twin flames of sensation across his back. He increased his pace marginally, and the twin flames licked hungrily through his entire body.

"Atashi... dekinai." A whisper.

He was consumed to do this thing. His very existence hinged on the rhythmic thrusts that his painfully hard member was executing. Wave after wave of sensual pleasure swept through him. His eyes flared open, seeing only varying degrees of whiteness before him. The whiteness shimmered with every plunge he took. The whiteness protected him from something else.

"Yamate kudasai."

Still his body threw him in and out of the slick channel on its own accord. Within, he experienced a physical intensity that shook him to the very core. Even as his heart sounded painfully loud against the suddenly constrictive ribcage, he grasped on hopelessly to that intensity, transmitting his pain into a focus. He was molten river. From without, he moved like a broken puppet doll, exulting in its grotesque movements, manipulated by an unseen puppet master.


Youji felt something move beneath him and it was followed rapidly with a numbing sensation on his left cheek. As his head followed the blur of movement, his eyes focused on one very distressed Hanae. Adorned only by her long knotted hair, she was leafing through the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed desperately, trying to wear what she found while looking for more articles of clothing. When she was done, she lifted her head; cheeks flushed more with anger than previous exertion. She looked about to make a scathing remark, but when their eyes met, something she saw in Youji's eyes stopped her short, and her expression quickly turned into one of fear. Grabbing her handbag by the reading table, she fled the room.

Kudou Youji lay alone on the bed.

Empty. I feel empty again.

His right hand moved up to grip his still-moist shaft, rubbing his sex lengthwise in hope of restoring some of the previous hardness. It remained stubbornly unresponsive to his ministrations. Disgusted, he smeared the distasteful substance on his sheets and lay there some more, trying to ignore the screaming emptiness that he had managed to avoid for a little while.

With Ken and Omi out, Youji let his utter annoyance show as he padded downstairs to retrieve his misplaced lighter near the couch below. Youji's favourite soap opera played out softly over the television set, but he was in no mood for teary farewells. As he approached the couch, he noted the seated form of Fujimiya Aya on the yellow leather, exhibiting his masochistic nature by subjecting himself to the long-suffering drama that he so detested.

On the armrest, Aya's right fist was balled in a way that Youji knew the nails to be digging into the tender palms. The wound in his right index finger had reopened, blood showing through the white bandage startlingly. That was unlikely to be caused by any distaste of soap. He lowered himself into the single seater perpendicular to Aya and inhaled his lit cigarette. Images from the box danced vividly across the room.

"You're early."

Youji bristled at the curt statement, which carried an Aya-like terseness that hinted of other embarrassing conclusions that his discerning mind had come to. As Youji's gaze settled briefly on Aya to search for a basis of the unwelcome remark, he was further irked as he detected a slight upturn of the offender's lips.

"Don't patronize me." One good turn deserved another.


"And don't think you're so damn perfect either," continued Youji, risking to annoy Aya rather than to face the silence.

An onslaught of anger hardened the mauve eyes. In a very quiet voice, Aya intoned, "At least I've made a decision. Better that than some whining delinquent who doesn't know what to do when he can't get it up."

Youji was up and holding Aya by his shirtfront in a flash. Aya was forced to stare into the lividly boiling greens of his eyes. "Oh. You think that you're so clever to build your own little castle of ice?" the forced voice had lost its usual sensual edge. The hand around the collar tightened and lifted Aya even higher, powered by rage. "You think that you're brave just because you're strong enough to survive after you've betrayed everything that defined humanity? You think you're the only one who has loved and lost? You think you're the only one who has to wake up every morning knowing there's blood on your hands? Ah, but you don't know that do you? That's because you're scared so shitless that you've run away with your tail tucked between your legs. You refuse to even see that you're a killer. You're pathetic, Fujimiya." Youji brought up his knee hard and fast into the other man's groin. The beautiful face knotted in a spasm of pain. He let go of the collar, dropping Aya like a sack onto the couch. He turned away from the huddled figure. Then in a softer voice. "So what if you can get it up? You're not even human."

Behind him, Aya choked on his own breath and began to shake. First in little tremors, then uncontrollably as emotional pain seared through his self. Youji turned around slowly in time to see the transformation as the dam broke. Aya whimpered, bent over in foetal position. His face was etched in grief. His breathing became ragged, chest engulfed by a sudden knowledge of pain. Oxygen came in increasingly short sharp breaths. His eyes were contained by the guilt that was within. Pain would soon suffocate him. Reacting instinctively, Youji reached out to the rigid form and pulled him to a sitting position beside himself, thumping his back to force air in. Breathe dammit. A final shudder, then the tears came. Tears that have accumulated too extensively. The heat of Youji's words had finally melted the ice caps they had frozen into. He rocked to and fro in Youji's arms, tears accompanied by hoarse groans that originated from deep within his chest. His chest heaved as his guttural cries grew louder, insufficient to express the guilt and loneliness he felt within. Youji clasped the broken man tightly, whispering soothing words, stroking the auburn hair gentle, all the while willing his embrace to squeeze the pain from his kindred. For his heart was twisted by a similar knife. Gradually, Aya grew softer, having shed himself dry of tears. He still rocked gently between arms that continued holding him, reeling from the emptiness within. The catharsis was completed but the healing process had not yet started.

With tender slowness, Youji began to pull away. Alarmed, Aya's head snapped up, his expression naked with fear to lose this final source of comfort. Youji was startled to see in the red-rimmed eyes an echoing loneliness that gnawed at his own soul. They were both lost. Their gaze locked, like a man looking into the mirror of his own reflection. As Youji forced himself to break the gaze, Aya's eyes screamed a primal need, a longing that rattled similarly in his bones. He felt a distinct pressure building up in his boxers and knew his arousal to be showing clearly through the thin material. His breath caught as he suddenly found Aya's lips latched onto his. They kissed savagely, the shorter man pulling Youji onto the couch. Their tongues darted and danced, each trying to consume the other. Aya moaned with unfulfilled need as Youji reached deep into the back of his throat. Youji's hands were like hot brands beneath his shirt, expertly kneading and hardening his nipples, touching all the sensitive spots that added to the arousal. Aya buckled once, thrown by the paroxysm of sensation that rushed through his body. Signalled, Youji's hands were moving down to undo the buckle of Aya's belt, unzipping the pants to push it down to knee level. Tongues still twisting, he lowered himself hungrily, the stiffened boxers against the other straining load under white cotton. He shuddered with pleasure as manhood rubbed against manhood over sheer cloth. Aya gasped at the unexpected contact. His hands moved to clamp Youji closer, moaning as he felt the other thrusting with strength and desperation.

Whiteness, whiteness. Waves after waves of shocked whiteness. Who was he? The waves were breaking more powerfully against him than before. There was a silhouette of black through the layers of white. What was it? It came closer with every surge of the whiteness. Molten. Pleasure. Agony. At last he saw the dark wall of pain just as it crashed into him.

Their eyes flew open. A single paralysing current of sensation swept across both of them. Their hips grinded painfully against each other for the final time as their seeds poured forth to be swallowed by porous cloth. Spent, they laid together as the last of the shuddering subsided. For the rest of the night they remained unmoving.