Pulse
by Tenshi
author's note: Okay, we'll give this a try. =) Standard warnings for boysex, chainsmoking, random abuse of designer clothing and altogether too much consumption of vodka for non-comedic purposes.
It was definitely the fault of Ken's wrists, Yohji decided, halfway through his second vodka and just starting a cigarette. Ken's wrists were solely responsible for the wrenching in his gut and the severe need for a stiff drink that had sent him straight to his room almost before Aya had managed to park the car. Yohji scowled at the reflective surface of his vodka, replaying the night's events in his mind and wondering if there was something else on which he could place blame.
Ken hadn't been badly hurt by the fall as they made their escape, but he'd landed awkwardly and sitting up in the back seat of the car wasn't comfortable. "Don't take this the wrong way," Ken had said, wanly, and curled up on his side across the seats, his head resting on Yohji's thigh. Ken had fallen asleep almost instantly, like a small child on a road trip, his clawed hand dangling at the floor.
Yohji's first thought had been for Aya's floormats. His obsession over the condition of his own vehicles tended to rub off on other people's cars as well, and he didn't want any traces of blood from Ken's glove getting on the carpeting. It was just too easy to trace, in this day and age. Yohji had leaned over Ken's prone form and lifted Ken's hand, heavy with the glove, into his own. He had intended to peel the glove off and put it somewhere where it wouldn't stain, but the weapon was spotlessly clean. Yohji remembered, in retrospect, that the claw was the only thing Ken compulsively kept immaculate. It was in the car that Yohji realized that he'd never looked closely at the weapon, and he found himself fascinated by it. Perhaps it was the late hour or the sleepy rainy motion of the car that made small mechanisms enchanting. He ran his fingers over the claw-housing socket, quietly absorbed in the same way he could, for hours on end, watch an artist drawing in pastels on the pavement, or Omi arranging flowers. It created a small stillness deep inside him, and always made him think of Paris.
Yohji's cigarette had turned to nothing but ash, he tossed it and lit another, chalking partial blame to sentimentality and late night nostalgia. There was nothing particularly intriguing about the weapon. The glove had been suede once, now smooth with wear and the blades gleamed silently from their oiled casing. An unusual weapon, true, and not one Yohji would have picked. Aya's katana and Omi's bow were simple and practically efficient, Yohji's own garrote had been chosen for secrecy, versatility and, of course, Style. But Ken's claw was brutal and demanded a death more intimate than Yohji's usual strangulation technique. While Yohji could feel his victim twitch on the end of his wire, Ken had to feel the resistance of flesh and bone right up to his elbow, as if he were tearing the target open with his own bare hands.
Yohji shuddered in the backseat of the car, not liking the morbid train of thought. Even so, the mechanism of the glove intrigued him, and without really thinking about how odd it must look he'd had Ken's hand close to his face to examine the claw in the shreds of streetlight filtering in through the window.
That's when it happened.
Ken's hand fell back limply in Yohji's, exposing a surprisingly narrow, summertanned wrist. Beyond the scent of leather and oiled steel was suddenly the smell of Ken's skin, clean and innocent and fresh beneath the faint old blood tarnish of the weapon. Ken's wrist seemed fragile, framed by the heavy leather casing of the glove, as if the weight of it was more than he could bear. Yohji nearly had that bit of naked skin pressed to his face- to kiss or to smell he wasn't sure – but he caught himself just in time. He glanced around guiltily, but Omi was asleep in the front seat and Aya had his eyes on the road.
He didn't quite have the chance to be relived. A small noise caught his attention and with a startled expression behind his sunglasses Yohji had looked down to see Ken wide awake in his lap, brown eyes huge and lip bitten from holding his breath.
By some divine grace the car had pulled up to the apartment just then, and without a word Yohji practically fled to the safety of his room.
Which was where he was at the moment, staring down a drink he didn't feel like finishing, mooning over a two-inch swath of Ken's skin like a fan girl obsessing over her favorite seiyuu.
If he'd kissed him there, would he have felt Ken's pulse?
With a noise of disgust, Yohji ground out his cigarette.
It was tempting to ignore the knock on his door; Yohji was certain it would be Ken, all puppy-dog eyes and angst. Poor kid. Anything he'd learned about lust he'd probably gotten from an episode of Bishojo Seishi. Probably thought Yohji was madly in love with him, or some other teenage junk. Well, he was just going to have to nip this in the bud. If some part of him spoke up that Ken was a killer like himself and certainly no child, Yohji ignored it. He schooled his expression into the indifferent heartless one he wore for old girlfriends and high-school girls, and knocked back the rest of the vodka to wet a throat that had inexcusably gone dry.
"It's open."
Ken popped his head around the door, smiling easily and not looking at all like he was about to protest his undying devotion to Yohji. Truth be told, he made Yohji look downright jittery.
"Hey, we were thinking of getting a pizza, you wanna come?"
Yohji blinked, caught off guard. "I don't know," He stalled, taking his time to light a cigarette he really didn't want. "It's awfully late..."
"Late?" Ken grinned, stepping the rest of the way in the room. "You? C'mon, Yohji-kun! You waiting for a girl to call?"
"No," Yohji retorted, more firmly than he meant and realizing Ken had given him a perfect excuse and he'd blown it. His eyes caught the flash of metal in Ken's hand and he frowned. "What's that? You gonna force me to come with you?"
Ken blinked down at his glove as if he'd forgotten he brought it. "Oh, yeah! I saw you looking at it, I thought if you were interested in checking it out. It's easier when the damn thing's off." Ken tosseed the weapon on Yohji's desk, and picked up the bottle of vodka. "You okay, Yohji?"
"Fine, why?" Yohji was eyeing Ken's claw as if he expected it to leap up and bite him.
"I just know how you hate drinking alone, that's all." Ken rummaged on Yohji's desk for the second glass he knew was kept there, and filled it halfway with the clear liquid. "Here. Kampai." He clinked his glass against Yohji's stationary one, and waited for the older man to take a sip.
Yohji's eyes narrowed. Was Ken's hand shaking? "You hate vodka," he stated flatly.
"Ah, it's not so bad. C'mon, give us something to drink to, neh?"
Yohji shrugged, forcing a smile. "Absent friends."
"Hai," Ken agreed, thoughtful for a second before tipping back the glass. He winced, struggling not to cough, and glanced sidelong at Yohji, who drank his vodka like it was water.
"Phew! How can you drink this stuff anyway?" Ken scowled at the label on the bottle—- it was in Russian.
"Long practice," Yohji drawled, gesturing expansively. His hand jerked as it accidentally came into contact with Ken's claw, and though he tried to cover it, the gesture had not gone unnoticed.
"My weapon that distasteful to you, Yohji?" Ken's voice was low, and he sounded insulted, dangerous. He set his glass down with a thump, alcohol splashing over his hand. "Not tidy enough for you? Too passé?"
"Of course not." Yohji suddenly ached to yell at Ken, just for the sake of normalcy. "Why the fuck should I care how you kill people?"
"You certainly were interested enough in it tonight!" Ken stood up straighter, cheeks flushed. "I thought you were going to proposition it!"
Yohji's hand came down hard on the desk, making the glasses jump. "Damnit, Ken, it wasn't your glove I wanted to proposition!"
The silence was sudden and absolute; Yohji half out of his chair, Ken looking shocked. For a second they didn't even breathe, and then Yohji swore disgustedly under his breath, falling violently back in his chair and reaching for Ken's unfinished glass.
A hand came down on the rim, blocking the liquor from his mouth. "What," Ken asked quietly, "Precisely do you mean by that, Yohji?"
"Let go," Yohji replied, calm and deadly.
Ken's fingers tightened on the glass. "Answer me."
"I said LET GO," Yohji growled, lunging up out of his chair. The glass bounced to the carpet, spilling its contents, and Yohji twisted Ken's wrist behind him as his mouth covered Ken's, kissing him hard.
Ken managed a nonverbal protest of surprise and pain, but the moment Yohji released him he did not attempt to escape, fists knotting in the front of Yohji's shirt and forcing his own leverage into the kiss. It was not much, Yohji's arm was locked around Ken's body, pinning his arms where they were, his other hand tangled hard in short brown hair, making Ken hold still and take it, his head tilted back, mouth open. It was the way Yohji always meant to kiss a lover, hard and brutal, without the delicate insincere touches he used on women. Ken knew he'd lost when Yohji first dove into him, ruthless as he took what he wanted. His mouth was hot and somehow sweet, not the expected flavor of vodka and tobacco but more like the cinnamon flavored filters on his cigarettes. One leg wedged itself between Ken's, forcing him back against the desk. He whimpered desperation, hips bucking against the slow deliberate pressure of Yohji's hipbone. Ken finally had to tear his mouth away, gasping.
"Stop."
"Stop what?" Yohji asked, inches from Ken's face, arms on either side of him and braced against the wall. Ken was arched back over Yohji's desk with no place to go, the hungry insistence between his legs pressed hard against Yohji's, hands still in his shirt. "I'm not the one doing anything."
Ken froze, aware suddenly that Yohji was standing perfectly still and he was the one grinding his hips against Yohji's. Embarrassment and desire and most of a glass of vodka all made the room too warm, Ken turned away from Yohji's intense emerald stare and focused on his own hands.
Yohji's shirt had suffered in the past few minutes, pushed well back onto his arms; the buttons scattered across the floor. Ken watched the flutter of Yohji's pulse in his throat and tried desperately to think. "I- I think I'd… think I better go."
"Do you?" Yohji leaned forward, slowly kissing down Ken's cheekbone. He stopped, lips just barely touching the corner of Ken's open mouth. "I would think you'd rather stay." One nudge from the hip was all it took; Ken cried out involuntarily and hooked his hands into Yohji's belt.
"God-- Yohji..." Ken forced his eyes shut, Yohji's hand slipping into the mysteriously undone front of his jeans and squeezing gently through the thin fabric of his boxers. "Yohji-" Ken's hands were almost enough to leave bruises. "Please... god, please..."
The please was all the formality required, Yohji's hand bypassed further clothing barriers and instead began to stroke the hot silk of Ken's skin. Ken's breath caught and his body began to rock with the same motion of Yohji's touch, his eyes opening wide in alarm when he realized Yohji wasn't going to stop.
"Yohji—- shouldn't... maybe we—unnn Yohji I'm gonna--"
"So do it." Yohji purred, pressing his face against Ken's soft hair, inhaling the clean summergrass scent of it. "C'mon, all over my fingers, Ken-kun."
Ken moaned slowly, his body a riot of motion under Yohji's touch, jolting the desk so hard that he knocked the empty vodka bottle to the floor. Ken made one brief, sharp noise, his hands digging painfully into Yohji's hips, Yohji's name a guttural groan as Ken shuddered, spilling himself shamelessly into the waiting heat of Yohji's hand.
"Beautiful." Yohji whispered, kissing Ken's temple, tasting the salt-sheen on his skin.
Ken rested his head on Yohji's shoulder, trying valiantly to steady his breathing. His body shook with each ragged breath, arms still loosely around Yohji's waist.
"Ken-kun!!" Omi's shrill voice floated up from downstairs, making both of them jump. "Are you coming or not?"
Yohji raised an eyebrow expectantly, wondering what Ken was going to do. Ken gathered his pants around his waist and sidled past Yohji to the door; for a moment Yohji thought he was going to leave without a word. Instead he just stuck his head out, and called down in a voice that was surprisingly calm, "Yohji's waiting to call a girlfriend and it's too late for pizza anyway. I'm gonna stay and keep him company and then we're gonna go grab some sushi or something. You two go on ahead, Aya's grumpy when he's hungry!"
"Aya-kun's always grumpy!"
"I heard that."
Omi's voice held no signs of suspicion. "Okay, have fun!" the door slammed shut, outside the engine of Aya's car started, then rumbled away.
Ken leaned his head against the shut door, exhaling relief.
"What a cool liar you are, Ken," Yohji said, admiringly.
Ken glanced over his shoulder, grimacing as his soiled clothes touched his skin. "What was that for?" he asked, eyes flashing with anger.
"What was what for?" Yohji resisted the urge to step back as Ken stalked over to him, fisting his hand in Yohji's ponytail and pulling the taller man down to kiss him thoroughly.
"That," Ken said, as if he'd just clarified everything. "What was that for?"
Yohji fumbled through some of his very best lines, but in the end all he came up with was, "Because you have sexy wrists?"
Ken blinked, not expecting that and pondering when Yohji cleared his throat, gesturing to the still undone front of Ken's jeans.
"You ah, you're kind of a mess."
"REALLY." Ken's voice dripped sarcasm. "I wonder whose fault that is."
Yohji put his head to the side, and unconscious gesture that made more of the flowershop fangirls swoon than any of the carefully practiced ones. "Are you mad?"
Ken really started to let Yohji have it for that, starting with taking advantage of him and ending with, well, taking advantage of him and finally just faltering, one finger in the air. "I don't know." He frowned.
Yohji caught the hand that was still hovering and kissed Ken's wrist tenderly, finally touching his tongue to the pulse beating there, feeling it speed up under his lips. "Ken," he murmured, eyes on the younger white hunter, "Come to bed."
Ken hesitated only a moment before nodding.
Yohji sat on his bed with his arms on the windowsill, eyes closed, letting the rain bead his hair and shoulders as the wind gusted shivers of the silver jewels against his skin. Thunder rumbled at a comfortable distance, and Yohji's cigarette smoke wafted up towards the low wooly clouds as if in adoration.
Next to him, in bed, Ken stirred in his sleep and stretched languidly, dark liquid eyes blinking up at a ceiling that was not yet familiar. "hmmm?"
"Ohayo gozaimasu," Yohji said, not opening his eyes or turning his face from the caress of the thunderstorm. He flicked ash into the alley below. "Sleep well?"
"Ima nanji?" Ken asked thickly, rubbing his face.
Yohji yawned. "'Bout four, I guess. Don'tcha just love Sundays?"
Ken's arm fell back limply in the cool sheets. He let his eyes half-shut, savoring the soothing noises of rain and thunder, the faint crackle of burning paper as Yohji took a drag off his cigarette. "Did we-"
"Yup." Yohji looked over at Ken for the first time, his expression softened by sleeping late with a lover and getting to watch an afternoon thunderstorm come and go.
Ken was incongruous against Yohji's black cotton sheets, his hair tousled, eyes half-shut. From somewhere beyond the storm came the lazy moan of a train whistle, followed by the eager rumble of steel wheels.
"You okay with that?"
Ken stretched again, aware of Yohji's eyes on him and making it last longer than he needed it to be, liking the approval in Yohji's silence as the sheet dipped low over his hips, teasing. "Yeah, I guess I am."
Yohji flicked his cigarette away and stretched out beside him to feel the warmth Ken's body left in his sheets, the clean male scent that wasn't his own. "Good." He reached out with long fingers, brushing Ken's bangs away from his face. Ken leaned into the touch; smiling and bending upwards like a cat as Yohji's warm palm slid over his face and down his chest. He sighed contentedly as fingertips dipped between his legs, petting soft quiet heat.
Oh, this was good, Yohji thought, nuzzling Ken's sweet-scented hair. This was warm and hungry and willing and spreading wide for him, this was sober and sensible Ken begging to be fucked at four in the afternoon on a Sunday. No dinners or chocolates or champagne required, and certainly none of the elusive innuendoes of love and commitment he was used to running through like a blockade. None of it even asked for, no discussion of tomorrow. Yohji drew lean muscled legs around his waist and covered Ken's body with his own. The one thing Ken asked for was easy to give, buried deep inside his heat with only the murmur of Ken's breath for music.
And wrapped all around Yohji like the soft sound of falling rain was the sweet cadence of Ken's pulse, thundering in abandon with his own.
~o~