Weiss Kreuz, "Set Apart, Set Together," Youji/Ken/Aya, Aya/Omi, NC-17
The first story I ever published, published on the BND Babes' site (www.discarnate.com/boysnextdoor). I began writing fanfiction by editing others' fiction, just to teach myself how to write slash (kind of like tracing out letters to learn to write), so it's appropriate that I'd first publish a story that was written as a sequel to someone else's.
Set Apart
by Koumori
For Marith, who made me think about Omi.
~*~*~*~
Omi closed up the shop by himself.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t terribly unusual for all the rest of Weiss to disappear as the afternoon went on. Youji usually showed up late and left early. Ken complained all the time about not getting enough sleep. Aya would come up with mysterious errands that needed to be run. So half the time Omi locked up alone, gritting his teeth and wishing he were less responsible. Ken had a point, though, he thought as he turned the sign on the door over to CLOSED. Kritiker expected them to work all day and often to work all night. And Omi for some reason still wanted to finish high school, if he lived that long, which meant another set of duties and obligations. Tonight, that included calculus-fortunately math was one of his better subjects-and debugging a surveillance program he’d written the previous day but couldn’t get to work properly.
Well. He couldn’t argue with the pay. And it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.
He had a computer in his room, of course, and his laptop. But he wanted to use the computer in the basement; that was Weiss property, Kritiker-issued, and it had much greater processing capacity than anything of Omi’s own. It was the only one in the house that would even run his program, much less let him get in and monkey around with the code. So he got himself a soda out of the refrigerator, grabbed up his notes, and headed for the basement.
The steps to the basement were well hidden behind a concealed door from the back hall, appropriately enough considering that that was where most of their Weiss equipment was hidden. Omi found the nearly-invisible keypad and entered his password and thumbprint for admission, and the door slid open, virtually soundless. Omi made it about two steps down before he stopped cold.
Somebody had gotten to the basement before him.
Everybody, actually.
He’d known about this forever, of course. He’d heard them through the walls, no matter how quiet they tried to be, and after he’d noticed that happening, he’d also noticed the way they looked at each other, how it changed. Youji and Ken, anyway; Aya showed nothing more than usual-which was to say, pretty much nothing. Omi didn’t especially enjoy listening to his partners screwing-the walls were thick enough that usually it was all right, but Ken in particular had trouble keeping quiet-so he’d made a pretty successful effort to stay away from the house as much as he could. He should’ve known that sooner or later they wouldn’t be able to keep it to their damn bedrooms. Youji was way too much of a seize-the-day type for that.
The three of them were all shirtless; from his vantage point on the stairs, Omi could see their clothes scattered across the floor. Aya leaned over Ken, who was reclined in one of the chairs with his thighs spread, kissing him; kissing him slowly and lightly and flirtatiously, making Ken lean up, trying to capture him, trying to follow the flutter of Aya’s tongue. Youji, meanwhile, was pressed up against Aya’s back, licking and biting at his strong shoulders, breathing deep the scent of his hair, suckling at his neck; one hand was pressed to Aya’s chest, stroking his nipples, while the other disappeared down the front of Aya’s jeans. It was a hell of a scene to walk in on.
They didn’t see him. Too absorbed in themselves and in each other. It crossed Omi’s mind that if he’d been of a mind to kill them all, he could have shot every one of them from the stairs before they even knew he was there. That seemed like a breach he ought to mention to somebody.
That it wasn’t a shock to see them like this meant that Omi didn’t feel the sudden urge to bolt that he might have had a few months ago. Instead ... there was something about it that he envied.
He didn’t want to join them, not really. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it that much, and it would have ripped him up, afterwards. He knew that. But watching them, he felt a little pang; envy or something like loneliness. They knew each other and understood each other and communicated without words, shared their bodies and their most intimate souls. Omi had nothing like that. Even in this house, he was isolated, set apart.
And so just this once he tried to imagine what it might be like. What it would feel like, his body in the middle of that tangle of flesh, caressing hands, flirting tongues and teeth. Tried to imagine the heat of bodies pressing and grinding and arching against him, hot wet mouths on his skin, tongues exploring his mouth, his ear, his neck. Hands and teeth and lips all over him, all at once, everywhere.
Omi was seventeen. He looked younger; he couldn’t help that. But he knew it made the others think of him as a kid, and he was no kid. If that was what kept them from hitting on him too, he was all right with it, since he didn’t really think he would have been interested in that; but it also kept them from even telling him about it, and that was really annoying. As if he didn’t need to know what was going on in his own house, as if he couldn’t have handled it, as if he didn’t know what sex was all about. Well. He didn’t, really; not on a personal level, but he understood it just fine in the abstract. He knew about pleasure. He had felt desire, even if he had yet to act on it with another. And he understood why his partners might have felt the need to turn to each other. If they’d asked him, if they’d talked to him, maybe he could have told them so.
But no one asked Omi anything.
And so Omi lingered on the stairs. He watched Aya kissing Ken, and tried to imagine it, to imagine what Ken felt, taking the hot teasing flutter of Aya’s tongue-tip; to imagine what Aya felt with Ken’s lips parting to him, tasting his mouth, sliding between his lips, the soft hungry response of his tongue.
He had no idea how long they’d been there; long enough, from the look of it. Long enough to be ready to move on to the next phase. Youji was no longer satisfied with his hands inside Aya’s jeans, wanted him naked; and what Youji wanted, it was pretty clear, Youji got. They undressed themselves and each other in more or less equal measure. Omi couldn’t resist looking, of course; nobody could have. He’d never seen them naked before, and like anybody else would have been, he was curious to see what they looked like, hard and ready. He concluded that none of them had anything to be ashamed of. Ken and Youji pulled Aya between them, kissed him, kissed each other, hands everywhere, gliding and caressing and devouring.
Omi sank down to sit on the steps, leaning against the wall where he would present a smaller figure if one of them should happen to look his way. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to just leave, leave them to it, go and do his math homework. He was aroused, but it was a distracted sort of arousal; it felt entirely disconnected from the scene unfolding before his eyes. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he wanted to see what it was they had that he did not. Maybe it was enough for him just to imagine what it would be to be kissed like that, to be touched like that; to be desired like that. Maybe he had to see it for himself.
Omi shouldn’t have been surprised when Youji came up with a bottle of what he could only assume was lube from some discarded pocket or other, and yet it still made him blink. Youji caught Ken’s eye and grinned at him, then tossed the bottle to him; Ken caught it with a grin that matched. Ken slid down to his knees, bringing Aya with him, coating his fingers with the clear shining liquid, and moved to Aya’s side, stroking those fingers into the cleft of Aya’s ass. And Omi should have realized what the lube was for, of course, but that made him blink too.
Ken teased Aya slowly, drawing his fingers up and down, pressing in slightly and then drawing back, adding a few more drops of slippery liquid every few minutes, slicking Aya with slow, easy thoroughness; Aya moaned in a soft mingling of pleasure and frustration and desire for more. Youji watched with an approving smile, until Ken’s fingers finally pushed forward, until he finally entered Aya, working the slickness deeper, working it inside him.
Then Youji joined them on the floor. He borrowed the bottle from Ken; their eyes met again, and they kissed above Aya’s body. Youji drizzled lube directly from the bottle, lacing it the length of Ken’s cock, and Omi saw his tongue glide over Ken’s lips as he kissed him again, as he began to smooth and stroke the liquid over him. Youji’s hand glided almost without friction over Ken’s slippery shaft, working it in precisely controlled rhythm.
Watching them, the way their eyes met, the passion in their kisses, Omi saw with perfect clarity that although there were three people involved, it was Youji and Ken who were connected. Aya was an accessory; he brought a warm and willing body to the proceedings, but Youji and Ken brought the true heat. Youji gripped the nape of Ken’s neck hard, holding the younger man’s head still as they kissed, and even as Ken’s fingers worked in and out of Aya, he closed his eyes, grasping at Youji’s shoulder with his free hand, giving himself entirely and losing himself entirely in that kiss.
Youji drew his tongue slowly across Ken’s lips before he drew away, and let his hand linger another moment before he pulled back. Ken half-smiled at him, and slowly drew his own fingers back, laying his hands on Aya’s hips, a wordless signal.
Aya raised himself slightly, bracing his hands on the edge of the couch, moving his knees a little further apart, allowing Ken all the access he needed. Omi watched with fascination as Ken moved easily and surely behind him, taking his own glistening cock into his hand and guiding himself into a place it seemed he knew well. Ken was still for a moment, letting Aya feel the pressure and the heat of him, before he made the first press forward; Omi heard Aya’s hissing intake of breath. They paused for what seemed like a long time, Ken tracing his hands down Aya’s ribs, before he finally pushed forward again, before he buried himself completely in Aya’s body.
Youji made a low sound of pleasure at the sight; Aya shifted slightly, finding the most comfortable position for him, and Ken allowed him to adjust as he preferred, before he began to move inside him. Slowly at first, though the way Ken’s teeth sank into his lower lip told Omi that he did not want to go slowly. But he had enough control for that, for now, and gradually, as Aya adjusted to the sensation of him inside, Ken read the cues of Aya’s body, let his rhythm gather speed and momentum, until he was driving into the older man, fucking him, riding him in a rough demanding rhythm; until their moans and cries rose together, up the stairs to the place where Omi listened, and watched.
Omi watched the pulse of Ken’s hips, watched the muscle move under his taut skin with every thrust, watched the force rocking Aya’s body, rippling through it. Aya’s hands braced on the couch were white-knuckled and tense, and his face was hidden from Omi, but Omi could hear him grunting, moaning deep and harsh as Ken took him. Omi would never have expected Aya to be so willing, would never have expected to hear sounds of such hunger and such lust. Aya was always so focused on his missions and his obligations; it was interesting, strange, to see him focused so intently on himself, on the responses and demands of his body.
Youji watched them too, watched them with an animalistic single-mindedness, licking his lips, drinking in the sight, the sounds, Ken’s flushed ecstatic face, the bodies working before him, glazed with sweat. Finally, he moved around and forced Aya to move his hands, so that Youji could find a place on the couch between them, at Aya’s head.
Aya didn’t need to be told what to do. As soon as Youji sat before him, parting his thighs just enough, Aya took him into his mouth. Youji dug both hands hard into Aya’s hair, forcing the younger man’s head down over him, urging him into immediate rhythm, and they both moaned. Youji’s hands slacked slightly on Aya’s head, but he rode Aya’s swift hungry sucking, his breath already coming in fevered gasps of pleasure. Omi watched it all, watched Aya’s head bobbing over Youji’s lap, watched Ken’s rough hard rhythm; saw the flush rising to their faces, the desire and the release in their eyes.
Youji and Ken shared Aya between them as though he were a doll. It was an amazing thing to see, Aya’s willing submission to them, and it cast the redhead in a very, very new light. There was nothing in his face but oblivion, his body rocking between Youji’s and Ken’s in primal, feverish rhythm. Omi heard the soft deep sounds in Aya’s throat, heard the slap of flesh against flesh, the hungry sucking sounds of Aya’s mouth, Youji’s purrs and Ken’s moans. Ken’s fingers dug hard into Aya’s hips, hard enough to bruise, driving into him quick and hard and masterful.
And when Youji and Ken’s eyes met over Aya’s body, Omi saw that they were together, that they were fucking each other, without touching. Through Aya. Aya was their conduit.
And that was twisted. Twisted, and amazing.
Ken was the first to come. Omi had never seen anything quite like the look on his face, his eyes closed, lips parted, his face splashed with strawberry flush, polished with a hint of sweat. It was an expression Omi had seen before; an expression he’d seen on the people they killed, in the moment of death. It was transcendence, and it was oblivion. And it took hold of Ken’s whole body, tensing every muscle, driving him into Aya as deep as he could as his orgasm wrenched through him, torn from his throat in a deep, low, strangled cry of ecstasy.
That cry, the sound of Ken’s desperate pleasure, cut Omi like a knife. Suddenly he’d never felt so isolated or so alone, or so much a prisoner in his own skin.
He did not want to stay around to watch the final conclusion.
And he definitely wasn’t going to get to use the downstairs computer anytime soon at this rate.
His own body felt too hot and too heavy, and the longer he watched, the more he saw, the more bitterly he felt his exclusion from their intimate circle of three. He stole back up to his room as quietly as he could-they wouldn’t notice, not as distracted as they were-and locked the door.
The weight of his clothes against his skin was too much, and he shed them quickly; but when he took himself into his hand, leaned back against the bed and closed his eyes, it was not the scene downstairs that arose behind his eyelids. He wanted to get away from that, from the connections that flowed between his partners, that did not touch him; and it was the soft ripe bodies of girls that helped Omi bring himself to a quick and strangely unsatisfying climax.
By the time Omi had showered and changed, Youji, Aya and Ken had all emerged from the basement. Ken gave him a casual “hey” as he passed Omi on the stairs. Aya slipped into the shower after him. Youji lounged on the couch, talking on the phone, setting up a date. Every one of them acted as though nothing was odd, as if they hadn’t just had a fierce threesome in the basement, or as if that didn’t matter to them. Omi couldn’t imagine how it could not matter, how it could not change the way they saw the world, each other.
He had a feeling he would never understand.
He hesitated at the top of the basement steps again, but there was nothing to keep him from going down this time. The room looked normal. He could not detect the smell of sex in the air. Everything was normal; for the basement, for his partners. Omi was the only one who was out of balance. Omi was the only one who was confused.
In the end, he simply went and turned on the computer, began work. The program wasn’t going to debug itself, and he was supposed to have it ready to install on a potential target’s computer the following day. He, too, could act as though nothing had happened. And, like Aya, he could act as though nothing inside the house touched him.
He could do that. It was the only way he was going to stay sane in this hothouse. As much as he wished there were another way, there wouldn’t be. What his partners did was their own business, and if he was not on their radar as someone who could be confided in, Omi could not help that.
Tonight, he worked alone.
~*~*~*~
Set Together
by Mistress Quickly
For Koumori, whose sad story was such an inspiration.
~*~*~*~
The mission hadn’t been too terribly rough, as missions were concerned. Above all else, it had been successful, quick, and without surprises. Arriving back at the Koneko, Youji made a joke about only coming home early on mission nights, making a pun about mission nights and missionary position nights. Omi rolled his eyes and retreated to the mission room to write his report. Aya icily retreated to take a shower. Ken bantered with Youji, strolling into the kitchen to make coffee. It was not unlike other mission nights when no one was injured and spirits were high-high for assassins, anyway.
Omi typed quickly, pausing to pick precise words and edit his sentences for clarity. He knew what would be upstairs if he went up to bed too early, and didn’t relish pretending to ignore the sounds of post-mission release emanating from one teammate’s room or another. Not tonight; not with the images so fresh in his mind.
So empty. So alone. He pondered his past, fingers poised above the keyboard.
Empty memories, shadowed with pain.
No father, no uncle; completely alone.
Murder, blood, fear, betrayal. None of it was new.
He sighed and continued his report. Balinese successfully this. Abyssinian as according to plan that. Siberian so on and so forth. Spell-check, readability statistics, save-attach-send. Boring. Routine. Expectation filled.
So empty.
With a sigh, he shut off the computer and opened the textbook he’d left on the desk the evening before. Calculus troubled so many of his classmates, but could offer him no such distraction. All too soon, his homework assignments as well were completed. He looked around the room, spying the tube of lubricant he’d watched his teammates use the day before. Poking out only a little bit under the couch, the tube seemed to challenge him to feel something, to remember with startling clarity the events he’d witnessed from the top of the stairs.
So alone.
He did have his laptop still, and headphones. He decided to brave the apartment long enough to slip into his room and listen to music. An hour would be more than enough, then he could shower and sleep. No more dirt, no more thoughts. His mind was too cluttered, to crowded with images and emotions, where he felt so empty; so alone.
His fingers found the lightswitch; his feet, the stairs.
Nothing but silence greeted him. With a sigh, he retreated to his room.
~*~*~*~
An hour later, silence remained thick and unbroken throughout the apartment. Omi set down the manga he’d been reading, finally unable to bear the grime and sweat of the mission he felt on his skin. He’d not killed anyone that night; it had been a simple enough mission that only Youji and Aya had needed to do such filthy work, but the film of unease still settled on him, making a shower seem the best activity in the world. Grabbing his towel, a clean pair of underwear, and pajamas, he left his room and padded silently into the bathroom.
With the efficiency that made him a brilliant computer hacker, Omi washed and conditioned his hair, bathed, rinsed, and dried his body. Towel tied about his waist, he allowed his upper body to air-dry as he stood at the sink, brushing his teeth absent-mindedly. He let him mind wander aimlessly, guiding it to other topics only when images of his teammates surfaced. With a sad shake of his head, he rinsed his mouth and pulled on his pajamas.
He was tired. Tired of missions, tired of feeling younger than he was, tired of knowing more than a man his age should know. Returning to his room, he pondered the thought that no woman would ever want him, thinking of the girls in the manga he read: soft, loving young women who sought out their lover’s dark secrets and helped to heal the broken heart, claiming it as their own as they mended old wounds. No woman could ever love someone so empty, so full of death and of hate.
With a sigh, he tugged back the comforter on his bed and collapsed onto the cold sheets, not bothering to put away his manga. He didn’t allow himself to cry, not over his own pain, and so he ignored the tears that slipped over his cheeks and onto his pillow, unbidden and unwanted.
Just like him.
~*~*~*~
The others were older, and better trained as assassins, not trusting anyone; always on their guard. Omi had simply been raised to kill and steal. He slept well, even when another stood so close by in the darkness, staring at him.
Almost soundlessly, the silhouette moved to the young man’s bed, sitting on the edge of the bed near the small of the boy’s back. It was not the first time the silhouette had appeared, and would not be the last. The boy often dreamed of it, but never woke and rarely stirred. It was a secret, and the silhouette enjoyed its privacy.
And unlike the young blonde, the silhouette had never enjoyed manga. The plots were so obvious, so cheap. There was always a dry stick to step on, a loose paper to upset, alerting the protagonist of another’s presence. So cheap, so cheesy, so unreal.
Just as unreal as a sweet 17-year-old who knew more about killing full-grown men than flirting with the girls in his class.
And so, when the forgotten volume of manga crunched beneath Aya’s weight as he sat on the bed, hand outstretched to stroke Omi’s tear-streaked face, neither he nor the startled-awake assassin knew what to do. With a yelp, Omi blindly pulled the cord on his reading light, illuminating the room and the shocked face of his teammate as his fright-widened blue eyes settled on the source of the noise.
“Aya-kun?”
It was more a question of reality than of identity. Aya was not easy to confuse with anyone else, but sleep was the great muddler of all things perceived. A ragged sigh from the redheaded assassin answered Omi’s query, and the silence stretched.
Had Aya been Youji, the situation would have been very different. A quick smile and a lie about hearing the younger man cry out in his sleep would have formed easily on the older man’s lips, explaining away his odd presence and providing a comfortable avenue for escape.
But Aya was not Youji.
Had Aya been Ken, the situation would have been very different. A clumsy grin and a joking excuse about checking to make sure the “kid” was getting enough sleep would have formed easily on the soccer player’s lips, explaining away his presence and providing a comfortable avenue for escape.
But Aya was not Ken.
Aya-awkward, quiet, and unsure-was himself, and at that particular moment, was frozen, sitting on Omi’s bed, hand outstretched to smooth away forgotten tears, a volume of manga crunching and bending beneath his weight. His violet eyes blinked in the light of the reading lamp, owlish and startled.
The silence was deafening.
“Aya-kun, are you alright?” Omi asked, bewildered. He couldn’t remember ever being so close to the redhead, and wondered if perhaps the closeness allowed him to see the man’s insecurity so clearly expressed in his unusual eyes.
“Omi-kun,” Aya whispered, lowering his hand. He was never good with words, save for when he visited his little sister and talked to her lifeless form for hours on end. The expressive blue eyes before him were confusing; disarming. Words-excuses, lies, pleasantries-betrayed him; deserted him.
“Aya-kun, are you alright?” Omi repeated, concern tingeing his voice. He watched Aya’s arm drop to the swordsman’s lap, watched Aya turn to better face him. Watched with stunned eyes as Aya reached out with both arms to pull him into a tentative, shy embrace.
Aya-kun was not alright.
Having been raised an assassin, by assassins, Omi was not well acquainted with the idea of hugging, but found himself growing used to the feeling rather quickly, resting his head against Aya’s chest while Aya’s head rested against Omi’s soft blond hair. It was a strangely comforting feeling, to be held in another’s arms, to feel that person’s entire world centered around only him. Unlike dancing, which Omi had done a few times with his female classmates at school functions, there was no movement involved, and therefore no need to worry about coordination. Unlike conversation, to which Omi was daily subjected with customers in the shop, there was no need for attention, and therefore no need to worry about understanding. Unlike killing, which Omi did all too often with his teammates, there was no need for caution, and therefore no need to worry about suspicion and the unexpected. It was calming, almost like a frozen moment to be savored.
Omi realized he was crying.
Aya’s fingers flexed, rubbing the tips of each finger across the t-shirt covered muscles of Omi’s back. That, too, was a nice, undemanding feeling, so Omi returned it, doing the same on Aya’s back. He ignored his tears as he had earlier. They were not his to claim.
The manga crunched again as Aya shifted, bringing a folded leg up onto the bed for better balance as he pulled Omi into a tighter embrace. Omi bent both of his legs and shifted onto his side, burying his face in Aya’s chest, sobbing in earnest. He felt so different in Aya’s arms, so unlike the feelings of emptiness and solitude to which he’d grown so painfully accustomed. Aya did not coddle him, did not hush nor soothe him. Aya merely held him still, a reality to which Omi could return when his thoughts became dark and overwhelming.
With slow determination, Aya shifted the young man in his arms, moving against the sheets of the bed to make room for two bodies rather than one. The traitorous manga was placed quietly on the bedside table; the lamp cord was again pulled. In the darkness, Aya held Omi against him, breathing slowly in rhythm punctuated by Omi’s softening sobs. The silence between them stretched, illuminated only by the dull shine of the streetlamps outside the window. Together, they slept.
~*~*~*~
The atmosphere among assassins was not easily changed. The habits of the four young men did not change dramatically with the life and death around them. The flower shop remained. Missions came and went. Omi filed his reports. The three older Weiss continued to pretend their sexual escapades did not exist.
And every night, Aya slipped into Omi’s room and into Omi’s bed, holding the young man, sometimes hearing him cry, sometimes listening to him breathe. If Youji and Ken noticed, they did not let on.
Only when Esset was gone, Schwarz defeated, and Weiss left for dead did things begin to change.
Aya never spoke of it with Omi, but it was clear. Without Weiss, Ken and Youji no longer needed distance; Omi no longer needed unbroken closeness. Change did not come easily, but it did come.
Making love with Aya was not unlike embracing with him. Neither he nor Omi took a particularly dominant role. Their movements were always controlled, always tacitly considerate. Pleasure was given and received, and through each other they could feel. Afterward, there was always the comforting embrace.
New feelings were the hardest part of the change for Omi. He fought territorial resentment that arose in him towards his other teammates, resentment at the use they’d had for his lover. Where Aya had clearly consented, he’d been as empty, as alone, as Omi throughout the development of Youji and Ken’s relationship. His muscles would tense at the thought, only to be soothed by Aya’s gentle fingertips, reassuring him that no vengeance was needed. Aya’s muscles often betrayed the redhead’s resentments as well, resentment at the exclusion and silent pain of his lover. And during such times of emotional ache, Omi’s soft fingers soothed away the confusion and pain.
Together, they learned to heal.
Together, they worked alone.
~*~*~*~
Author’s note: I’m not a huge fan of this story; as a matter of fact, I rather dislike it. Being the obsessed fan of Youji/Aya fanfiction that I am, it royally bugs me to have a story where Youji and Ken are together. That, and Aya/Omi grosses me out. But Koumori’s story was so oddly intriguing to me when I read it the first time that I simply HAD to write a response; she’s quite a writer, that girl. I think she’s a girl; I actually don’t know. Anyway, this is the first story I ever posted, and I just couldn’t have a site of my own without having this on there.
I’m off to kick Youji’s ass for cheating on Aya now. I’ll try to mark the story that results from my wrath once it’s done ...
Set Apart
by Koumori
For Marith, who made me think about Omi.
~*~*~*~
Omi closed up the shop by himself.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t terribly unusual for all the rest of Weiss to disappear as the afternoon went on. Youji usually showed up late and left early. Ken complained all the time about not getting enough sleep. Aya would come up with mysterious errands that needed to be run. So half the time Omi locked up alone, gritting his teeth and wishing he were less responsible. Ken had a point, though, he thought as he turned the sign on the door over to CLOSED. Kritiker expected them to work all day and often to work all night. And Omi for some reason still wanted to finish high school, if he lived that long, which meant another set of duties and obligations. Tonight, that included calculus-fortunately math was one of his better subjects-and debugging a surveillance program he’d written the previous day but couldn’t get to work properly.
Well. He couldn’t argue with the pay. And it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.
He had a computer in his room, of course, and his laptop. But he wanted to use the computer in the basement; that was Weiss property, Kritiker-issued, and it had much greater processing capacity than anything of Omi’s own. It was the only one in the house that would even run his program, much less let him get in and monkey around with the code. So he got himself a soda out of the refrigerator, grabbed up his notes, and headed for the basement.
The steps to the basement were well hidden behind a concealed door from the back hall, appropriately enough considering that that was where most of their Weiss equipment was hidden. Omi found the nearly-invisible keypad and entered his password and thumbprint for admission, and the door slid open, virtually soundless. Omi made it about two steps down before he stopped cold.
Somebody had gotten to the basement before him.
Everybody, actually.
He’d known about this forever, of course. He’d heard them through the walls, no matter how quiet they tried to be, and after he’d noticed that happening, he’d also noticed the way they looked at each other, how it changed. Youji and Ken, anyway; Aya showed nothing more than usual-which was to say, pretty much nothing. Omi didn’t especially enjoy listening to his partners screwing-the walls were thick enough that usually it was all right, but Ken in particular had trouble keeping quiet-so he’d made a pretty successful effort to stay away from the house as much as he could. He should’ve known that sooner or later they wouldn’t be able to keep it to their damn bedrooms. Youji was way too much of a seize-the-day type for that.
The three of them were all shirtless; from his vantage point on the stairs, Omi could see their clothes scattered across the floor. Aya leaned over Ken, who was reclined in one of the chairs with his thighs spread, kissing him; kissing him slowly and lightly and flirtatiously, making Ken lean up, trying to capture him, trying to follow the flutter of Aya’s tongue. Youji, meanwhile, was pressed up against Aya’s back, licking and biting at his strong shoulders, breathing deep the scent of his hair, suckling at his neck; one hand was pressed to Aya’s chest, stroking his nipples, while the other disappeared down the front of Aya’s jeans. It was a hell of a scene to walk in on.
They didn’t see him. Too absorbed in themselves and in each other. It crossed Omi’s mind that if he’d been of a mind to kill them all, he could have shot every one of them from the stairs before they even knew he was there. That seemed like a breach he ought to mention to somebody.
That it wasn’t a shock to see them like this meant that Omi didn’t feel the sudden urge to bolt that he might have had a few months ago. Instead ... there was something about it that he envied.
He didn’t want to join them, not really. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it that much, and it would have ripped him up, afterwards. He knew that. But watching them, he felt a little pang; envy or something like loneliness. They knew each other and understood each other and communicated without words, shared their bodies and their most intimate souls. Omi had nothing like that. Even in this house, he was isolated, set apart.
And so just this once he tried to imagine what it might be like. What it would feel like, his body in the middle of that tangle of flesh, caressing hands, flirting tongues and teeth. Tried to imagine the heat of bodies pressing and grinding and arching against him, hot wet mouths on his skin, tongues exploring his mouth, his ear, his neck. Hands and teeth and lips all over him, all at once, everywhere.
Omi was seventeen. He looked younger; he couldn’t help that. But he knew it made the others think of him as a kid, and he was no kid. If that was what kept them from hitting on him too, he was all right with it, since he didn’t really think he would have been interested in that; but it also kept them from even telling him about it, and that was really annoying. As if he didn’t need to know what was going on in his own house, as if he couldn’t have handled it, as if he didn’t know what sex was all about. Well. He didn’t, really; not on a personal level, but he understood it just fine in the abstract. He knew about pleasure. He had felt desire, even if he had yet to act on it with another. And he understood why his partners might have felt the need to turn to each other. If they’d asked him, if they’d talked to him, maybe he could have told them so.
But no one asked Omi anything.
And so Omi lingered on the stairs. He watched Aya kissing Ken, and tried to imagine it, to imagine what Ken felt, taking the hot teasing flutter of Aya’s tongue-tip; to imagine what Aya felt with Ken’s lips parting to him, tasting his mouth, sliding between his lips, the soft hungry response of his tongue.
He had no idea how long they’d been there; long enough, from the look of it. Long enough to be ready to move on to the next phase. Youji was no longer satisfied with his hands inside Aya’s jeans, wanted him naked; and what Youji wanted, it was pretty clear, Youji got. They undressed themselves and each other in more or less equal measure. Omi couldn’t resist looking, of course; nobody could have. He’d never seen them naked before, and like anybody else would have been, he was curious to see what they looked like, hard and ready. He concluded that none of them had anything to be ashamed of. Ken and Youji pulled Aya between them, kissed him, kissed each other, hands everywhere, gliding and caressing and devouring.
Omi sank down to sit on the steps, leaning against the wall where he would present a smaller figure if one of them should happen to look his way. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to just leave, leave them to it, go and do his math homework. He was aroused, but it was a distracted sort of arousal; it felt entirely disconnected from the scene unfolding before his eyes. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he wanted to see what it was they had that he did not. Maybe it was enough for him just to imagine what it would be to be kissed like that, to be touched like that; to be desired like that. Maybe he had to see it for himself.
Omi shouldn’t have been surprised when Youji came up with a bottle of what he could only assume was lube from some discarded pocket or other, and yet it still made him blink. Youji caught Ken’s eye and grinned at him, then tossed the bottle to him; Ken caught it with a grin that matched. Ken slid down to his knees, bringing Aya with him, coating his fingers with the clear shining liquid, and moved to Aya’s side, stroking those fingers into the cleft of Aya’s ass. And Omi should have realized what the lube was for, of course, but that made him blink too.
Ken teased Aya slowly, drawing his fingers up and down, pressing in slightly and then drawing back, adding a few more drops of slippery liquid every few minutes, slicking Aya with slow, easy thoroughness; Aya moaned in a soft mingling of pleasure and frustration and desire for more. Youji watched with an approving smile, until Ken’s fingers finally pushed forward, until he finally entered Aya, working the slickness deeper, working it inside him.
Then Youji joined them on the floor. He borrowed the bottle from Ken; their eyes met again, and they kissed above Aya’s body. Youji drizzled lube directly from the bottle, lacing it the length of Ken’s cock, and Omi saw his tongue glide over Ken’s lips as he kissed him again, as he began to smooth and stroke the liquid over him. Youji’s hand glided almost without friction over Ken’s slippery shaft, working it in precisely controlled rhythm.
Watching them, the way their eyes met, the passion in their kisses, Omi saw with perfect clarity that although there were three people involved, it was Youji and Ken who were connected. Aya was an accessory; he brought a warm and willing body to the proceedings, but Youji and Ken brought the true heat. Youji gripped the nape of Ken’s neck hard, holding the younger man’s head still as they kissed, and even as Ken’s fingers worked in and out of Aya, he closed his eyes, grasping at Youji’s shoulder with his free hand, giving himself entirely and losing himself entirely in that kiss.
Youji drew his tongue slowly across Ken’s lips before he drew away, and let his hand linger another moment before he pulled back. Ken half-smiled at him, and slowly drew his own fingers back, laying his hands on Aya’s hips, a wordless signal.
Aya raised himself slightly, bracing his hands on the edge of the couch, moving his knees a little further apart, allowing Ken all the access he needed. Omi watched with fascination as Ken moved easily and surely behind him, taking his own glistening cock into his hand and guiding himself into a place it seemed he knew well. Ken was still for a moment, letting Aya feel the pressure and the heat of him, before he made the first press forward; Omi heard Aya’s hissing intake of breath. They paused for what seemed like a long time, Ken tracing his hands down Aya’s ribs, before he finally pushed forward again, before he buried himself completely in Aya’s body.
Youji made a low sound of pleasure at the sight; Aya shifted slightly, finding the most comfortable position for him, and Ken allowed him to adjust as he preferred, before he began to move inside him. Slowly at first, though the way Ken’s teeth sank into his lower lip told Omi that he did not want to go slowly. But he had enough control for that, for now, and gradually, as Aya adjusted to the sensation of him inside, Ken read the cues of Aya’s body, let his rhythm gather speed and momentum, until he was driving into the older man, fucking him, riding him in a rough demanding rhythm; until their moans and cries rose together, up the stairs to the place where Omi listened, and watched.
Omi watched the pulse of Ken’s hips, watched the muscle move under his taut skin with every thrust, watched the force rocking Aya’s body, rippling through it. Aya’s hands braced on the couch were white-knuckled and tense, and his face was hidden from Omi, but Omi could hear him grunting, moaning deep and harsh as Ken took him. Omi would never have expected Aya to be so willing, would never have expected to hear sounds of such hunger and such lust. Aya was always so focused on his missions and his obligations; it was interesting, strange, to see him focused so intently on himself, on the responses and demands of his body.
Youji watched them too, watched them with an animalistic single-mindedness, licking his lips, drinking in the sight, the sounds, Ken’s flushed ecstatic face, the bodies working before him, glazed with sweat. Finally, he moved around and forced Aya to move his hands, so that Youji could find a place on the couch between them, at Aya’s head.
Aya didn’t need to be told what to do. As soon as Youji sat before him, parting his thighs just enough, Aya took him into his mouth. Youji dug both hands hard into Aya’s hair, forcing the younger man’s head down over him, urging him into immediate rhythm, and they both moaned. Youji’s hands slacked slightly on Aya’s head, but he rode Aya’s swift hungry sucking, his breath already coming in fevered gasps of pleasure. Omi watched it all, watched Aya’s head bobbing over Youji’s lap, watched Ken’s rough hard rhythm; saw the flush rising to their faces, the desire and the release in their eyes.
Youji and Ken shared Aya between them as though he were a doll. It was an amazing thing to see, Aya’s willing submission to them, and it cast the redhead in a very, very new light. There was nothing in his face but oblivion, his body rocking between Youji’s and Ken’s in primal, feverish rhythm. Omi heard the soft deep sounds in Aya’s throat, heard the slap of flesh against flesh, the hungry sucking sounds of Aya’s mouth, Youji’s purrs and Ken’s moans. Ken’s fingers dug hard into Aya’s hips, hard enough to bruise, driving into him quick and hard and masterful.
And when Youji and Ken’s eyes met over Aya’s body, Omi saw that they were together, that they were fucking each other, without touching. Through Aya. Aya was their conduit.
And that was twisted. Twisted, and amazing.
Ken was the first to come. Omi had never seen anything quite like the look on his face, his eyes closed, lips parted, his face splashed with strawberry flush, polished with a hint of sweat. It was an expression Omi had seen before; an expression he’d seen on the people they killed, in the moment of death. It was transcendence, and it was oblivion. And it took hold of Ken’s whole body, tensing every muscle, driving him into Aya as deep as he could as his orgasm wrenched through him, torn from his throat in a deep, low, strangled cry of ecstasy.
That cry, the sound of Ken’s desperate pleasure, cut Omi like a knife. Suddenly he’d never felt so isolated or so alone, or so much a prisoner in his own skin.
He did not want to stay around to watch the final conclusion.
And he definitely wasn’t going to get to use the downstairs computer anytime soon at this rate.
His own body felt too hot and too heavy, and the longer he watched, the more he saw, the more bitterly he felt his exclusion from their intimate circle of three. He stole back up to his room as quietly as he could-they wouldn’t notice, not as distracted as they were-and locked the door.
The weight of his clothes against his skin was too much, and he shed them quickly; but when he took himself into his hand, leaned back against the bed and closed his eyes, it was not the scene downstairs that arose behind his eyelids. He wanted to get away from that, from the connections that flowed between his partners, that did not touch him; and it was the soft ripe bodies of girls that helped Omi bring himself to a quick and strangely unsatisfying climax.
By the time Omi had showered and changed, Youji, Aya and Ken had all emerged from the basement. Ken gave him a casual “hey” as he passed Omi on the stairs. Aya slipped into the shower after him. Youji lounged on the couch, talking on the phone, setting up a date. Every one of them acted as though nothing was odd, as if they hadn’t just had a fierce threesome in the basement, or as if that didn’t matter to them. Omi couldn’t imagine how it could not matter, how it could not change the way they saw the world, each other.
He had a feeling he would never understand.
He hesitated at the top of the basement steps again, but there was nothing to keep him from going down this time. The room looked normal. He could not detect the smell of sex in the air. Everything was normal; for the basement, for his partners. Omi was the only one who was out of balance. Omi was the only one who was confused.
In the end, he simply went and turned on the computer, began work. The program wasn’t going to debug itself, and he was supposed to have it ready to install on a potential target’s computer the following day. He, too, could act as though nothing had happened. And, like Aya, he could act as though nothing inside the house touched him.
He could do that. It was the only way he was going to stay sane in this hothouse. As much as he wished there were another way, there wouldn’t be. What his partners did was their own business, and if he was not on their radar as someone who could be confided in, Omi could not help that.
Tonight, he worked alone.
~*~*~*~
Set Together
by Mistress Quickly
For Koumori, whose sad story was such an inspiration.
~*~*~*~
The mission hadn’t been too terribly rough, as missions were concerned. Above all else, it had been successful, quick, and without surprises. Arriving back at the Koneko, Youji made a joke about only coming home early on mission nights, making a pun about mission nights and missionary position nights. Omi rolled his eyes and retreated to the mission room to write his report. Aya icily retreated to take a shower. Ken bantered with Youji, strolling into the kitchen to make coffee. It was not unlike other mission nights when no one was injured and spirits were high-high for assassins, anyway.
Omi typed quickly, pausing to pick precise words and edit his sentences for clarity. He knew what would be upstairs if he went up to bed too early, and didn’t relish pretending to ignore the sounds of post-mission release emanating from one teammate’s room or another. Not tonight; not with the images so fresh in his mind.
So empty. So alone. He pondered his past, fingers poised above the keyboard.
Empty memories, shadowed with pain.
No father, no uncle; completely alone.
Murder, blood, fear, betrayal. None of it was new.
He sighed and continued his report. Balinese successfully this. Abyssinian as according to plan that. Siberian so on and so forth. Spell-check, readability statistics, save-attach-send. Boring. Routine. Expectation filled.
So empty.
With a sigh, he shut off the computer and opened the textbook he’d left on the desk the evening before. Calculus troubled so many of his classmates, but could offer him no such distraction. All too soon, his homework assignments as well were completed. He looked around the room, spying the tube of lubricant he’d watched his teammates use the day before. Poking out only a little bit under the couch, the tube seemed to challenge him to feel something, to remember with startling clarity the events he’d witnessed from the top of the stairs.
So alone.
He did have his laptop still, and headphones. He decided to brave the apartment long enough to slip into his room and listen to music. An hour would be more than enough, then he could shower and sleep. No more dirt, no more thoughts. His mind was too cluttered, to crowded with images and emotions, where he felt so empty; so alone.
His fingers found the lightswitch; his feet, the stairs.
Nothing but silence greeted him. With a sigh, he retreated to his room.
~*~*~*~
An hour later, silence remained thick and unbroken throughout the apartment. Omi set down the manga he’d been reading, finally unable to bear the grime and sweat of the mission he felt on his skin. He’d not killed anyone that night; it had been a simple enough mission that only Youji and Aya had needed to do such filthy work, but the film of unease still settled on him, making a shower seem the best activity in the world. Grabbing his towel, a clean pair of underwear, and pajamas, he left his room and padded silently into the bathroom.
With the efficiency that made him a brilliant computer hacker, Omi washed and conditioned his hair, bathed, rinsed, and dried his body. Towel tied about his waist, he allowed his upper body to air-dry as he stood at the sink, brushing his teeth absent-mindedly. He let him mind wander aimlessly, guiding it to other topics only when images of his teammates surfaced. With a sad shake of his head, he rinsed his mouth and pulled on his pajamas.
He was tired. Tired of missions, tired of feeling younger than he was, tired of knowing more than a man his age should know. Returning to his room, he pondered the thought that no woman would ever want him, thinking of the girls in the manga he read: soft, loving young women who sought out their lover’s dark secrets and helped to heal the broken heart, claiming it as their own as they mended old wounds. No woman could ever love someone so empty, so full of death and of hate.
With a sigh, he tugged back the comforter on his bed and collapsed onto the cold sheets, not bothering to put away his manga. He didn’t allow himself to cry, not over his own pain, and so he ignored the tears that slipped over his cheeks and onto his pillow, unbidden and unwanted.
Just like him.
~*~*~*~
The others were older, and better trained as assassins, not trusting anyone; always on their guard. Omi had simply been raised to kill and steal. He slept well, even when another stood so close by in the darkness, staring at him.
Almost soundlessly, the silhouette moved to the young man’s bed, sitting on the edge of the bed near the small of the boy’s back. It was not the first time the silhouette had appeared, and would not be the last. The boy often dreamed of it, but never woke and rarely stirred. It was a secret, and the silhouette enjoyed its privacy.
And unlike the young blonde, the silhouette had never enjoyed manga. The plots were so obvious, so cheap. There was always a dry stick to step on, a loose paper to upset, alerting the protagonist of another’s presence. So cheap, so cheesy, so unreal.
Just as unreal as a sweet 17-year-old who knew more about killing full-grown men than flirting with the girls in his class.
And so, when the forgotten volume of manga crunched beneath Aya’s weight as he sat on the bed, hand outstretched to stroke Omi’s tear-streaked face, neither he nor the startled-awake assassin knew what to do. With a yelp, Omi blindly pulled the cord on his reading light, illuminating the room and the shocked face of his teammate as his fright-widened blue eyes settled on the source of the noise.
“Aya-kun?”
It was more a question of reality than of identity. Aya was not easy to confuse with anyone else, but sleep was the great muddler of all things perceived. A ragged sigh from the redheaded assassin answered Omi’s query, and the silence stretched.
Had Aya been Youji, the situation would have been very different. A quick smile and a lie about hearing the younger man cry out in his sleep would have formed easily on the older man’s lips, explaining away his odd presence and providing a comfortable avenue for escape.
But Aya was not Youji.
Had Aya been Ken, the situation would have been very different. A clumsy grin and a joking excuse about checking to make sure the “kid” was getting enough sleep would have formed easily on the soccer player’s lips, explaining away his presence and providing a comfortable avenue for escape.
But Aya was not Ken.
Aya-awkward, quiet, and unsure-was himself, and at that particular moment, was frozen, sitting on Omi’s bed, hand outstretched to smooth away forgotten tears, a volume of manga crunching and bending beneath his weight. His violet eyes blinked in the light of the reading lamp, owlish and startled.
The silence was deafening.
“Aya-kun, are you alright?” Omi asked, bewildered. He couldn’t remember ever being so close to the redhead, and wondered if perhaps the closeness allowed him to see the man’s insecurity so clearly expressed in his unusual eyes.
“Omi-kun,” Aya whispered, lowering his hand. He was never good with words, save for when he visited his little sister and talked to her lifeless form for hours on end. The expressive blue eyes before him were confusing; disarming. Words-excuses, lies, pleasantries-betrayed him; deserted him.
“Aya-kun, are you alright?” Omi repeated, concern tingeing his voice. He watched Aya’s arm drop to the swordsman’s lap, watched Aya turn to better face him. Watched with stunned eyes as Aya reached out with both arms to pull him into a tentative, shy embrace.
Aya-kun was not alright.
Having been raised an assassin, by assassins, Omi was not well acquainted with the idea of hugging, but found himself growing used to the feeling rather quickly, resting his head against Aya’s chest while Aya’s head rested against Omi’s soft blond hair. It was a strangely comforting feeling, to be held in another’s arms, to feel that person’s entire world centered around only him. Unlike dancing, which Omi had done a few times with his female classmates at school functions, there was no movement involved, and therefore no need to worry about coordination. Unlike conversation, to which Omi was daily subjected with customers in the shop, there was no need for attention, and therefore no need to worry about understanding. Unlike killing, which Omi did all too often with his teammates, there was no need for caution, and therefore no need to worry about suspicion and the unexpected. It was calming, almost like a frozen moment to be savored.
Omi realized he was crying.
Aya’s fingers flexed, rubbing the tips of each finger across the t-shirt covered muscles of Omi’s back. That, too, was a nice, undemanding feeling, so Omi returned it, doing the same on Aya’s back. He ignored his tears as he had earlier. They were not his to claim.
The manga crunched again as Aya shifted, bringing a folded leg up onto the bed for better balance as he pulled Omi into a tighter embrace. Omi bent both of his legs and shifted onto his side, burying his face in Aya’s chest, sobbing in earnest. He felt so different in Aya’s arms, so unlike the feelings of emptiness and solitude to which he’d grown so painfully accustomed. Aya did not coddle him, did not hush nor soothe him. Aya merely held him still, a reality to which Omi could return when his thoughts became dark and overwhelming.
With slow determination, Aya shifted the young man in his arms, moving against the sheets of the bed to make room for two bodies rather than one. The traitorous manga was placed quietly on the bedside table; the lamp cord was again pulled. In the darkness, Aya held Omi against him, breathing slowly in rhythm punctuated by Omi’s softening sobs. The silence between them stretched, illuminated only by the dull shine of the streetlamps outside the window. Together, they slept.
~*~*~*~
The atmosphere among assassins was not easily changed. The habits of the four young men did not change dramatically with the life and death around them. The flower shop remained. Missions came and went. Omi filed his reports. The three older Weiss continued to pretend their sexual escapades did not exist.
And every night, Aya slipped into Omi’s room and into Omi’s bed, holding the young man, sometimes hearing him cry, sometimes listening to him breathe. If Youji and Ken noticed, they did not let on.
Only when Esset was gone, Schwarz defeated, and Weiss left for dead did things begin to change.
Aya never spoke of it with Omi, but it was clear. Without Weiss, Ken and Youji no longer needed distance; Omi no longer needed unbroken closeness. Change did not come easily, but it did come.
Making love with Aya was not unlike embracing with him. Neither he nor Omi took a particularly dominant role. Their movements were always controlled, always tacitly considerate. Pleasure was given and received, and through each other they could feel. Afterward, there was always the comforting embrace.
New feelings were the hardest part of the change for Omi. He fought territorial resentment that arose in him towards his other teammates, resentment at the use they’d had for his lover. Where Aya had clearly consented, he’d been as empty, as alone, as Omi throughout the development of Youji and Ken’s relationship. His muscles would tense at the thought, only to be soothed by Aya’s gentle fingertips, reassuring him that no vengeance was needed. Aya’s muscles often betrayed the redhead’s resentments as well, resentment at the exclusion and silent pain of his lover. And during such times of emotional ache, Omi’s soft fingers soothed away the confusion and pain.
Together, they learned to heal.
Together, they worked alone.
~*~*~*~
Author’s note: I’m not a huge fan of this story; as a matter of fact, I rather dislike it. Being the obsessed fan of Youji/Aya fanfiction that I am, it royally bugs me to have a story where Youji and Ken are together. That, and Aya/Omi grosses me out. But Koumori’s story was so oddly intriguing to me when I read it the first time that I simply HAD to write a response; she’s quite a writer, that girl. I think she’s a girl; I actually don’t know. Anyway, this is the first story I ever posted, and I just couldn’t have a site of my own without having this on there.
I’m off to kick Youji’s ass for cheating on Aya now. I’ll try to mark the story that results from my wrath once it’s done ...