Fic: "Smoke and Mirrors" - Act 5 “Flood Tide” ¤ Rosu x Saga ¤ NC-17
Title: “Smoke and Mirrors”.
Author: Nemesi.
Fandom: Saint Seiya.
Genre: Mystery. Romance. Fluffy and mushy stuff ahead, plus angst.
Word Count: 1540.
Characters/Pairing: Aiolos/Saga.
Overall Rating: ***R***
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Saint Seiya, its characters, places and themes belong to Masami Kurumada and Toei. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter Warnings: AU. Un-betaed. Slash. Blood is mentioned repeatedly. Also, beware of scenes of malexmale sex ahead, albeit none of them is *too* graphic.
Summary: "Love, sleep and death go to the same sweet tune;
Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it soon”
~A.C. SWINBURNE "In the Orchard"~
* * * * *
ACT 5 - FLOOD TIDE.
Moonlight was spilling inside the room; pale, dusty beams filtered through the curtains, encapsulating each object in a silvery sheen. The air was still warm, but pleasantly so. The occasional gust of wind smelled nice, like flowers in bloom, warm earth, green grass. There was no sound save that of crickets serenading mournfully among the trees.
Saga sat naked on the bed, hugging his knees in an almost childlike pose. He’d just woken; oddly enough, not from a nightmare, but from a kind of oblivion. He felt as if he’d just emerged from deep, dark waters, a place were his soul did not only sleep, but annihilated itself. Running his tongue across his lips, he tasted sweat. And tears, maybe. The salt burned his eyes.
Aiolos lay beside him, a sheer coverlet the only thing separating their nude bodies. The sculpted limbs, the golden skin, that face, looking so relaxed in sleep, lips parted, long eyelashes trembling, as his eyes darted under the lowered eyelids. There wasn’t an inch of him that Saga did not know by heart, that he hadn’t touched with fingertips and mouth and tongue, that he hadn’t pressed against, teased with nails and teeth, or lapped the sweat from.
Yet, at times, just after he’d woken up, when dream and reality were mingled still, Saga would watch that beloved, so well-known body as it was that of a stranger, while thinking: how can these memories be real? How can have caressed this skin, and combed these curls, and drunk from this mouth, for years upon years, since I’ve killed you at the age of fourteen, Aiolos?
His memories were becoming so confused, hazier with each day that passed. Nightmares had begun to seep into his waking life like poison spreading into water, and were sullying it, creating something new, a mixture of both, dark and terrible.
Sometimes, Saga couldn’t tell what in his memory was truth and what was dream anymore.
There were times, for example, where he stopped, suddenly fearful, just before Kanon’s room, certain to find him gone. Or times when he missed his Aiolos so much, he started to weep, soundlessly, his face frozen with horror, still like that of a statue, mouth close, eyes empty, while tears like raindrops slipped one by one down his cheeks.
At other times, it irked him not to be addressed to as “Lord” or “His Excellency”, or rather his feet would lead him towards the Kyoukou’s Rooms at the of the day, instead than to the Gemini Temple. Some mornings, he even found himself reaching out for a mask and robes he had never had in his possession.
His memories could become so unsubstantial at times, and his dreams so vivid, Saga didn’t know what to believe anymore. Who was alive? Who was dead? Killed by whom? And did the Gods care?
Was it so strange, that he feared he’d lose everything - his memories, his own self, his beloved ones, Aiolos, Kanon, Aiolia, his family, his world, piece by piece, and that he was staying awake now, trying to memorise as much as he could of himself, murmuring over and over about himself, his name, his favourite place, his birth date, which one was his temple, the date when he won his Cloth, what Aiolos had given him the last birthday, the name of that flower his mother used to wear in her hair, reminiscing the sound of Kanon’s voice, of children’s laughter, the feeling of Aiolos’s skin, his scent, the texture of his hair, the colour of his skin, like clover honey, and of his hair, which the sunlight turned a shade lighter in summer, and relishing in the warmth of him, his voice, his smile, the look in his face when they became one, when he said “I love you, Saga?”, the joy and the sadness ever-present in his eyes?
For as long as he could still say to be himself, and with all his faculties about him, Saga would keep watching Aiolos, watching him in order to burn every detail of his lover’s body and soul inside his mind, burn them there so that, when all else vanished, Aiolos would be still there, forever there, a part of him.
Oh, Saga had long come to realize his own was the love of a madman. No one could love as deeply, as completely, or as frightfully as he loved Aiolos. When he said he was madly in love, there was no better definition for it. He was obsessed. But it made him feel so good. So complete.
Aiolos moved, the mattress shifting beneath him, sheets rustling, and murmured something without waking up. The hand Saga had not realized to be stretching stopped an inch above Aiolos’s forehead, like a thief which had breached into the targeted home, and was surprised to find someone inside.
In moonlight, Aiolos looked almost unreal; touched by death. His features were shadowed, skin a silvery blue and lips sallow, like those of a ghost.
Again the mad thought came to Saga, the terrible revelation.
If you were taken from me, he thought. If you were ever taken from me, then I’d…
Saga’s hand hovered downwards, across Aiolos’ s exposed
(vulnerable)
neck, and came to rest at its base. Closing his eyes, Saga began counting the beats of Aiolos’s heart, smiling at the feel of it fluttering under his palm.
Had it be anyone else, coming this close to him, Aiolos would have been awake, and pinning the intruder against a wall in a matter of milliseconds. It was part of nature as a Saint to react like so.
In the whole of Sanctuary, in the whole of Universe, Saga only was allowed to watch, and touch Aiolos as he slept. It gave him a sense of power. And of belonging. It sent a thrill down his spine, to think that he was the only one who could share with Aiolos his most unguarded moments.
For no other reason that he could do it
(and how much he enjoyed it)
Saga leaned down and buried his face in the warmth of Aiolos’s neck, rained kisses along his jaw, traced his earlobe with a fingertip, placed an ear over his beating heart, touching him, feeling him, exploring him - and committing every sensation to memory.
If you were taken from me…
It terrified - yes, terrified, such an uncommon state for Saga, who was a stranger to fear - it terrified him to think of a life without Aiolos. A life of his own making, like in the realm the of his nightmares. Flashes of blood paraded before his eyes. Its coppery taste exploded upon his tongue, as screams, imaginary screams, rented the air.
The fact that such violence was purely imaginary, did not ease his conscience. It also did nothing to quench his panic. If his mouth was parched, and his heart beat wildly against his ribcage, it was only partially in arousal. Laying beside him, cloaked with little more than moonlight, Aiolos looked as real as any of Saga’s nightmares. If not less so.
Suddenly, gaining reassurance that Aiolos really was there, alive and breathing, became imperative.
Reaching down, Saga lowered the sheets down to Aiolos’s knees, taking special care that they didn’t touch the skin during their downwards journey. That body. That skin. Every single scar upon it.
Mine. No one else’s. Only mine.
And it was a hard and cold and clipped thought, delivered in a voice that was and yet wasn’t his own, but Saga couldn’t dwell upon it. His need was too great. It beckoned, screaming to be assuaged. Eagerly, Saga sat astride Aiolos’s thighs. Sweeping down, he took Aiolos’s mouth in a savage kiss.
Aiolos’s hands came immediately upon Saga’s body, clutching the hips, rubbing the back; his tongue slipped inside Saga’s mouth. Their eyes met. There was no need for words.
With a sob, Saga wrenched away from the kiss, set to taste, touch, tease his way down Aiolos’s body with hands and nails and mouth and teeth and tongue, dipping his head to trace the dips and curves of Aiolos’s finely muscled abdomen with the tip of the tongue, paying homage to his belly, all the while preparing himself for the taking, breath catching, heat rising, with Aiolos’s hands moving with his own, upon him, inside him, so careful, so firm, robbing him of thought, or breath, while their eyes kept gazing into the other’s, saying all there was to say, silently, without words, as steaming puffs of breaths pushed rapidly out of their open mouths, and each jerk became quicker than the first, each move more frenzy, until they began to rock softly, in splendid unison, clutching each other, cheek to cheek, mouth to mouth, bodies moulding, slick with sweat, as their passion mounted into a crescendo, tender and violent and desperate, a storm brewing and then breaking gloriously, through peals of bright thunder and eddies of scorching air.
Softly, Saga asked
(begged)
Aiolos to say his name, say it over and over and over, without pause, without breath; and Aiolos complied, in murmurs and screams and cries and whispers, as he moved inside his lover.
Those were the only words spoken, that night.