Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Tarantella ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

Author's Note - I originally intended to post this here first and foremost, but Mediaminer was proving difficult, and so for those who have already seen this on AFF.net, I apologize for any redundancy. Before we begin, I should acknowledge my rather abrupt disappearance. Fortunately, I've not died; however, my faithful computer of eight years met its rather untimely end. And took with it all of my additional work on Tarantella. I'm a rather obsessive note-taker, and without these close at hand I felt a bit lost. Thus, it took me quite some time to muster up the initiative to re-create everything that had gone before. Indeed, I even pondered leaving it as is, and not completing this unexpectedly long journey. But like anything in my life that remains unfinished, Tarantella made its presence known quite persistently, and I'm pleased to report that along with my shiny new laptop, I've also acquired new interest in seeing this finished. For now I leave you with a short update and my word that this long, long trek will see its conclusion, even if it takes another year. Cheers and enjoy!

 

Yohji smelled like vodka. There was an antiseptic twang lingering in the air around his body, with a vaguely cloying hint of orange juice trailing languidly behind that irrepressible alcoholic bite. It was a distracting mélange; seeping past the maelstrom of Aya's spinning thoughts, and suggesting; working in tandem with the lithe body pressed flush against his own, effortlessly dragging wicked images from beneath his impressive veneer of unwavering exterior calm.

 

But even with a heady mixture of cold fear and astonishing desire singing itself through the synapses of his startled mind, Aya's unwavering control held true. He eyed Yohji with a sort of detached fascination; marveling covertly at the Cupid's bow curve to his lips and the slight blush of pink scattered across boyishly smooth cheeks. He wondered in particular at the nearly incandescent green of enthrallingly soft eyes, as Yohji was almost certainly a man who understood the subtle dynamics of a come-hither stare. He scanned the room around him almost sleepily, lids heavy, with lengthy blonde lashes dusting intimately over honey-gold cheeks; never once betraying any unwanted emotion… any seeming weakness.

 

These were bedroom eyes; eyes to get lost in.

 

Eyes to be afraid of.

 

It wasn't really until Yohji's long arms slipped slowly away from around his sides that Aya's resolve firmed. Even as he was being forcibly disentangled from this unnerving impromptu embrace, he found his shoulders squaring into a position of defiance, his chin lifting just so to allow for a graceful inclination of the head, and his newly contemptuous stare speaking without words his intention to defy anything Kudoh Yohji might have to offer.

 

Even if it meant his salvation.

 

***

 

The truth was a tricky thing to navigate.

 

Yohji watched with no small amount of amusement as determination stiffened Aya's frame. He knew that stance, knew its meaning; its lack of nuance. There was truth in that defiance; it was a resounding no louder even than spoken language, and far more convincing than any pretense Aya might pretend to.

 

But in the end, one had to suppose that it was that very defiance to decide him.

 

After all, nothing rankled more than his ersatz leader's ostensible preoccupation with denial. Indeed, one even began to suspect that the man, however he might flirt with seduction, had no appetites at all; that he held no desires, no voracious urges begging to be sated; that underneath all of that pretty, pale flesh there was a great expanse of nothing. Even seeing him here, watching him play the libertine so very well, only made the lie that much more glaring.

 

It made it easier for Yohji to rationalize the deeds he had moved beyond contemplating. When decision had slid unerringly into action, he wasn't quite certain, but Aya was about to come slamming up against his own deceptions in a decidedly interesting manner.

 

***

 

“You're really rather a whore, aren't you.”

 

Aya raised a carefully constructed brow in mild surprise. Yohji seemed determined to unseat his rationality with every word he uttered. Indeed, the rage came hard on the heels of Yohji's casually offensive question. It was always too easy to find. And now, it reverberated through his fingers and up his arms, wound its way around his torso and into the corded muscles of his neck. It beat, beat, beat against his insides with a heady tick-tock rhythm; its strident appeal almost too much to withstand.

 

Violence was a stock response these days. The slick pull of metal against flesh, the soft and strange impact of bone against bone. But he came here to pretend away such things, to maybe lie to himself for just a little while. And even though it was mostly an exercise in futility, an epic performance of theatrical absurdity, his stage was already set and there was little he would allow to wreck such fastidious self-deceit.

 

But even as he tried to concentrate on stilling his hands and forcing slow, even breaths from between expressionless lips, Yohji's eyes narrowed, and cool, gloved fingers wrapped around his wrist with a near-crushing intensity.

 

Aya fought down the ridiculous urge to squeal an indignant protest. The words of shocked displeasure swam up his throat and around the too-dry contours of his mouth, but never quite became actual sounds. Even as he was forced through the crowd, weaving none-too-kindly through the clamor of bodies poised to distract like unruly children, nothing beyond a harassed sigh fought its way into quiet existence.

 

All the while, the tug on his wrist remained stubbornly insistent. It forced them between what could only be called horizontal displays of vertical affection, and through a steady string of broken caresses. They struggled past the dim chaos of the bar, and beyond a bizarrely bright wall of artistically shattered mirrors.

 

It wasn't really until they reached a yawning expanse of night-dark obscurity that Aya stopped fighting and started to wonder where exactly they were going.

 

***

 

Yohji knew exactly where they were going. The bathrooms would hardly prove a private venue for his currently carnal leanings, but it was the best he could do with circumstances such as they were.

 

He had managed to maneuver them to the rear hallways, littered with couples even less discreet than he, and feeling Aya's resistance the entire way. His grip remained obdurately firm even as he shouldered through the knot of indistinguishable flesh currently blockading the bathroom door like some eccentrically ironic honor guard.

 

The bathroom itself was murky, adorned by a flickering array of badly yellowed fluorescents and an excess of cracked porcelain. But Yohji pushed relentlessly forward, heedless of the decay, and swung his pale teammate impatiently against white tile - surprisingly clean for this bathroom - and watched intently as a spill of dirty sulfur light revealed the sharp contours of Aya's face, tinting everything to the pale sepia of distorted film, and leaving him exposed; illuminated like a room with too many windows.

 

The face filling his vision was neither angry, nor surprised. It did not crease with confusion or wariness, but instead, relaxed into the unfamiliar lines of resignation. Apathy stole across delicate features, collapsing a stubbornly beautiful mouth into gentle predictability.

 

This, beyond anything else, consumed Yohji with an almost inexplicable rage. He wanted the fight, expected it. A willing Aya… a pliable Aya… this was not the man he had dragged all but unwillingly into a backlit bathroom. This was a different creature entirely. An anomaly. And a mistake.

 

The hands resting almost lightly against Aya's elegant shoulders tightened imperceptibly, long fingers curling possessively over the whipcord steel of pale biceps.

 

He wanted the fight. But he could certainly proceed without it.