Yohji's trying to figure out his fascination and his own guilt in the midst of Aya's overwhelming self-loathing. Also sorry if rating is wrong, its not smut, but there is profanity, not that much.
I stood there stiffly, confused, tongue lost in his sea of quiet words, of perpetual withdrawal. He may as well have been talking to himself for all I understood, I will convince myself later that I ignored him, when really all I had done was watch him.
“Just leave Yohji.”
The suddenly harsh tone jerks me out of my daze. Or has he been speaking like this all along and I just can’t bring myself to hear him.
His tone is exasperated, he won’t look at me, the red hair falling in ragged layers over his eyes. I think he can tell I haven’t been listening to him and that’s why he’s looking at his hands. I move towards him, the hard set of his mouth a fear and attraction, I want him to look at me, even if its just to measure his blows. I can’t remember if I’ve said anything since I stumbled into his room earlier, hearing him cry out from one of his nightmares. I have no idea what he told me about it, if anything, if I’m supposed to feel close to him, or just honored that the reticent, icy bastard hasn’t choked me yet for disturbing his own private agony.
Tell you what Aya, look at me and I’ll go away. I smile a bit, glancing at the katana balanced across the room. He’d have to look at me to ensure I stayed still long enough to gut me.
I jerk forward as he stands up, taking in the rough grace of his aggravation. He looks at the floor as he places himself in front of me.
“Yohji, why are you here?”
I’m sure if he bothered to look he’d laugh at the confusion that must be plain on my face.
Brilliant. I can almost feel his hands clenching.
“Why. Are. You. Here.”
He hisses the words out.
“I heard you scream so I came to see what was wrong.”
He looks a little taken aback at that one, actually jerking his gaze up at me for a second.
“I already told you, I’m fine. Just a dream.”
So that’s what all the words were. I wonder absently how long I’ve really been in here. Thinking, I can’t gauge time all that well. I can smell the cold sweat on him, a sweat that’s so fine, so elegant and withdrawn that only Aya could possibly get to see it, much less have it.
His mouth twitches. Guess he wants a response.
I stare down at his hair, the long bare torso littered with scars. His skin is blinding, his hair unnaturally appealing. I almost want to take it in my mouth. I shake my head. Fuck, it’d be easier to be disgusted with him or to be lusting after him. Right now, I just want him to move.
He tenses at the sound of his name, I’d never noticed that before. I can feel the heat in his eyes, the hollow depths rising and cooling and refiring themselves. I think if he could see himself like this it’d give him enough reason to continue with his secluded and miserable self-loathing. I’ve never seen guilt made so fascinating.
“Are you going to be alright?”
His voice tightens, he glares at my chest
“I’ll be fine. Now go back to bed.”
“Why, so you can sit here and wallow in self loathing all night?”
I can’t believe I bothered to say that, pushing him has never been so interesting. He flinches almost imperceptibly. I know he hates himself from the way he plunges into missions, waking him up from his ongoing misery only for blood and the slim hope of revenge. it’s the only thing he holds reverence for that I can see, even though he’s always the first to condemn us, to remind everyone that we’re guilty ones, tainted into a half-life, a sort of coma that keeps us whole and capable of murder. He thinks he sees through it, but guilt is just another vice. Maybe its only more honest than the rest of ours
“Yohji,” for a moment he actually sounds tired, exhausted, the tone spreads to his skin, making it look sallow, spent, “Just leave me alone.”
The exhaustion bothers me. All the time I’ve known him he’s unstoppable, untouchable. I feel my lips turn up in a sickening smirk, my eyes go cold suddenly, the concern and………fascination pushed back.
“Fine Aya. Go to Hell.”
Colors wash over me, a blur taken before my eyes. The grin drops, I gape as Aya grabs my arms and hurls me into the wall. He follows a moment later, punching me in the stomach. My legs go limp, He grabs my shoulders and pins me down. His eyes flash, hair flying up and into my face, I catch some of it between my lips and clamp down to keep it there. He pounds my head back against the wall. My vision reels and I slide down until I’m half leaning on the ground, limply keeping my eyes open. He crouches on my chest, glaring at me, his lips pressed tight and angry, eyes raging. Looking down, my chest is a mottled purple. Hi hand grips tight, digging his nails into a patch of skin below my tattoo. Funny, I wonder why he doesn’t touch it.
“We already are in Hell Yohji.”
This time his voice is clear, ringing softly over me. He sounds like he’s speaking some great truth, some finality. I hardly refrain from snorting, it’s the exact bullshit you’d expect him to say. And if that’s profound, I imagine his recriminations are far more in depth.
“Only if you force it.,” I imagine my voice is rough, a little irritating,” Aya, that’s stupidity and you know it. You want to hate yourself, then hate yourself. You want to feel guilt for every dollar you’ve earned with blood, every life you’ve taken? Go right the fuck ahead. Just don’t do it with this damned posturing. Don’t ruin whatever dignity there is about the way you are by saying things that are supposed to be said and already have been. “ I pause. “It’s not honest.”
He hates me, I can tell in the way he settles his weight on me, glaring at the tattoo.
“And your way is any better?”
His voice is a low sibilant hiss, demanding some response I most likely can’t give him.
“I don’t know. At least I know I’m not getting out. You condemn us for our ideals, for thinking we actually help anyone with all this. You know, I don’t really think we do a damned thing. It’s just blood and bodies and constant accusation and waking up guilty and empty next to some stranger because I can’t forget anything. No, I don’t believe in our “noble cause”, good isn’t anything. It’s not real. None of it is, except the actual moment of death. I’m pretty familiar with that, its more concrete than anything else, don’t you agree?” I don’t wait for him to respond, “ The only difference between us is that I don’t think killing innocent or cruel or corrupt or any kind of people will do anything for me except expedite my own turn. I don’t think drinking myself stupid and whoring around will save me any hell, only add to it. It staves off the numbness, and saves me grieving a little while. I fuck myself into a black dreamless void every night and wake up in my own damnation, plastered with sweat and someone whose name I’ve already forgotten. I don’t think any revenge will save me, I never really did, I just had nowhere else to go, and I think you realize that to, almost. I think you expect redemption even if you’re not willing to accept it anymore.”
My spiel ended, I am surprised at how much I said. What do you do after you tell someone what you think about them without giving them your whole reaction. I add, quickly.
“I never learn either, I guess.” My voice is oddly choked, sad and quiet. He nods. Somehow this makes up for me not listening. It’s my way of telling Aya, ‘I’m not you’.
Settling off of me, he kneels on the floor, next to me. He looks at me in silence, his gaze never quite making it up to my eyes. Suddenly he speaks, his voice cutting across me
“What do you want from me?”
It is quiet. He sounds afraid. I don’t know. I’ve never considered anything, except maybe to keep Aya from killing himself every time we get a mission. His face is impassive, staring at my tattoo. It draws him, maybe for the same reason his eyes draw me, the same fear and attraction. I reach out to touch his hair, it dangles in front of his face, a red slash across his features. He closes his eyes, the circles under them expanding. Putting my other hand on his chin I react to the lurching pull of my stomach, the insane invasion of desperation and pull his face into mine, pressing our lips together. Nothing is forgiven, we are still guilty. I might convince myself I dreamed this, though I don’t know why. He sighs a little, his eyes snapping open. I can feel the violet crashing into my skin. I run my hand down his neck and over to his back, over his spine, reveling in the scars. He keeps his pressed between us. There’s a fury in the way his lips run over mine, the way his tongue penetrates every crevasse of my mouth, taking everything back into his own. I curl fingers into his hair, letting its soft feeling consume my skin. I won’t pretend to forget this. I don’t’ know why but there’s a certainty in the way we move, a sort of finality, a better one than the tone in his voice earlier. Its less convinced, less forced. He pushes me off, eyes looking up into mine. There’s a fresh look to them, a sort of freed sense of loss and anxiety. The guilt is almost eclipsed by it. He stares at me, his jaw slack, his body immobile, half sitting on my lap. He really is beautiful. I don’t want to think it. I run my fingers down his chest. Its inevitable, I won’t be able to hate him tomorrow.
Looking down into his eyes I smile slightly. His look is pure, young, it reminds me of morning somehow, the sort of unease about it. Taking his hand I pull both of us up, careful not to lose his gaze. It is piercing, a sort of clear intensity. Inexplicable, I think his eyes are the only uncorrupted thing I’ve ever seen. I lead him over to the bed, watching him spread out over it, resting on his side. I sit down and rub his shoulder, watching his eyes drift off.
Afterwards, it doesn’t matter. Nothing exists after anything. Its one continuous sweep of motion, of descent. It might even be safer, if I don’t wake up.