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If we had this night together
If we had a moment to ourselves
If we had this night together, then we'd be
Unstoppable
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Fonts used: Bernhard Fashion BT, Bernhard Mod BT, Centaur, Times New Roman
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Following a tomb silent car trip home, getting Hisoka and Nagi settled in with vague smiles and a few short laughs and directions around the apartment area, Ken carries Omi down the stairs to the boy's bedroom. The door opens noiselessly with another bump from the teenager's hip before he angles Omi in feet first, stepping quietly over toward the bed in order to slide the invalid carefully onto the mattress. Turquoise eyes overbright with residual, and not-so-residual anger remain averted from the blond's baby blues on a face masked in grim steel as long hands pull the crutches over and away, propping them up against the side of the bed.
Silence, too, owns Omi until Ken sets him down on his bed. With a little shiver, the young blond curls up on his bed, silently wishing he could just disappear. And, in entirely too small of a voice -- "I'm sorry." A long, long pause, then, as Omi struggles to clear his eyes of tears. "Ken-kun... I feel like I'm losing control. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore... I can't... do this on my own anymore. I can't..."
"None of us are alone," the words come out snapped, more bitingly harsh than Ken probably intended, if the somewhat stricken silence appending means anything. Standing in the dark, indecision momentarily takes the teenager, running long fingers through tousled dark brown hair. After a moment, well. He can't help it. The glaring hue of the brunette's eyes softens slightly as he turns and sits down on the bed behind Omi's back, long legs straightening out into a boyish sprawl on the floor in front of him. Tilting his head back, Ken stares blankly at the nondescript ceiling for a long moment. "Sorry about grabbing your shirt and everything. We're even."
"I'm scared." Somehow, Omi's voice is even smaller, the lanky little blond curled up into an even tighter ball, now, eyes staring out blankly at the wall. "I've never... lost... control before. And now I feel like I can't get it /back/."
-Something- tugs at the corner of the dark-haired boy's mouth as he drops his chin with an audible clack! of teeth, twists around slightly on his seat, dark eyes tracing the vague profile of Omi's shadowed face under strandy brown hair crashed back again. "Don't be silly," he says with a little snort, the mattress creaking faintly as he shifts his weight. Ken's index finger pokes down teasingly at Omi's waist, tanned face relaxing, if temporarily, into a smile. "You used to scream at us all the time."
Omi sniffles faintly, grabbing for Ken's finger. Meanie. "It's not... that. Vision going red is a scary thing..." But he says nothing more after that, turning onto his back and staring up at Ken miserably. "I'm ... so sorry, Ken-kun. I said a lot of hurtful things and I didn't mean /any/ of it..."
Falling instantly back into the age-old role of charming big brotherhood, Ken simply offers the slightly younger boy a cheerful grin (^_^) -- everything instantly forgiven, if not forgotten. "Che! Don't worry about it," after an instant's bout of chasing, the slim gold finger ends up clutched by the paler ones belonging to the miserable blond, twitching spasmodically like a freaked out bunny's against the sensitive hollow of Omi's palm. "The hospital does stupid things to people's heads. Nagi and Hisoka will be over lots now, and you're at home, so everything will be fine." Turquoise eyes drop from Omi's to the finger in question, grin fading to a small smile. "Aya-Chan too. So! We'll have one Hell of a big family."
Omi is reduced to just sort of tugging on that finger, tug-tug-tugging until he can get Ken a little closer. "I really need a hug." This is said as he struggles, now, to sit up, hissing in pain as he pushes up with his left hand. /Idiot/. Damn, that hurt. "Big family...?"
The soft mattress again creaks softly under the larger youth's weight as he obligingly leans and slides over, one arm supporting him while the other reaches out to brace the wounded torso of the other. "Baka Omi," Ken snorts lightly as he shifts the rest of him properly over, getting off his other arm to slip both around the younger boy, ribs held a careful half inch away from himself, permitting leather-clad arms to bear most of Omi's weight while his chin rests lightly on the other boy's shoulder. "There we go. Well..." dark turquoise eyes blink gravely under dishevelled strands, contemplating a moment. "...sure. Why not? You even have the family resemblence thing going for you guys," teasing faintly, teeth flashing brief and pale between his lips. Yes, he -does- notice they look somewhat alike. Just. Finds it a bit difficult to confuse the two.
Omi sort of nestles against Ken, clinging to the comfort he's always known was there but sometimes found himself fighting against inside. "We do look alike, don't we? Hijiri-kun and Nagi-kun... Hisoka-san and I..." For some reason, to him, it's always 'Hisoka-san'. "I hope Hisoka-san and I'll be friends..." Tired. He's tired but he won't admit it, though his eyelids lower just a little. Then, in a choked voice -- "I'm going to be sort of useless around here for a while, I think... I'm sorry..."
Well three. Triplets. Hell. When Omi's weight slumps into his own, arms close carefully to gather rather than squeeze the invalid against him, supple leather a warm prickling scent against the familiar backdrop of the little blond's room. "It's fine," Ken replies cheerfully, "You pulled the Koneko through so much crap before, I think you deserve a little vacation time. Although," previously turquoise eyes faded blue drop from the wall to down Omi's back, an unseen brow arching quizzically, "I think you could improve on your method for -getting- it. Think we could contact that Freyja girl for some help, though? I'm sure all the fangirls will be disappointed, but..."
"Reiko...? Hai, hai... I'll... call her tomorrow morning, okay?" Funny how Omi can seem so much /lighter/ at the moment, despite all that plaster attached to his leg and the splint ... thing ... keeping his collarbone from moving much. Perhaps he did mean what he said about starting to feel hollow inside. "It's late right now and I don't want to bother her so late... I can open tomorrow morning though if you'd like. It wouldn't take much..." STUBBORN.
The wicked appendage is once again _bestabbed_ into the small of the blond boy's back, moments before Ken draws back slightly from the hug, narrowed eyes sparkling down into blue ones with aquamarine mirth. "Try anything, and I'll kill ya. I swear to God." A faint wrinkle appears between Ken's eyebrows, showing that he does, indeed, really and truly mean it. "Besides, you promised to vegetate, right? You wouldn't break your promise to _KenKen_, would you?!" Gasp. Astonishment. -No-. Ne, if only Omi would stop looking like a kicked puppy.
Omi is trying not to giggle. He's honestly, honestly trying. But there's something in that look of Ken's that makes Omi start to grin, the dark blue of his eyes slowly lightening, fighting to regain that happy baby blue. "I don't particularly wish to die -- " anymore. " -- so I'll just stay down and resting... I promise, KenKen." From Ken-kun to KenKen -- an imperceptible switch, perhaps, one prompted by Ken's own words.
"Theeere we go." -Poof- of a sigh. Setting back in his seat, letting Omi go, long fingers again pull dark hair out of Ken's eyes. Well, at least it sounds better than it does when sneered by a certain _other_ more .. annoying blond-head. Ah, well. "So!" Turquoise eyes switching from dark hair to Omi's face and then across the dark room to the clock face, and then back to Omi, Ken finally tilts his head at the blond boy inquisitively, released hair flipping back neatly over his eyes as he plants fisted hands down on the mattress business-like. "Are you hungry right now? The hospital, I heard, usually serves dinner at like six, seven. And it's already /nine/. Anything before you fall asleep?"
"I'm not really hungry, but thank you. And I'm not that tired." There's a reason behind this, one that Omi has a hard time spitting out. But he manages to whisper, now -- "...Can you stay?... Please...? Just a little longer?"
The caramel line of Ken's mouth tenses slightly at this odd request, gaze sharpening visibly despite the gloom of Omi's abode, and the obscuring veil laid jagged across his eyes. A few long moments are killed off in seemingly casual consideration, balancing out conceivable consequences and the pale face staring fearfully at him out of satellite dish sky blue eyes, before -- inevitably, a shrug runs like fluid through slim shoulders. "Aww Hell," a grin breaks like glitter over the brunette's tanned face, unseen feet kicking boots neatly off with a loud THUMP, before two legs in jeans with a thin gray ankle socks hugging both feet to an inch above his heels are swung in unison onto the mattress. "Why not? I'll hang out until you fall asleep, OK?" Crossing his legs, the rest of the brunette spontaneously disappears. Backflop. "Your mattress is squishy."
"Arigatou... I just... got... used to having someone around that I could just sort of talk to late at night, you know, and now that I'm back home..." Omi doesn't follow Ken with his eyes, finding himself doodling in the dark instead, with pencil and paper. "You don't have to wait until I'm asleep though because I don't know when that'll be and..."
Snore. Just one, tiny, quiet one, followed by a snort of narrowly thwarted consciousness. "Hn," is the sound of acknowledgement that appends it, another breath indrawn to add something scornfully don't-be-silly-and-you're-very-much-welcome-ish to it, before the remarkable -- say, /squishiness/ of the mattress effectively cuts Ken short before he begins. Turquoise eyes have fallen shut, tousled dark head resting right on the edge of the bed and threatened, quite, to tilt right off it, Ken is rendered thus the image of the hapless snoozed-out teen.
Omi blinks -- then struggles up to a sitting position, one hand rubbing a little at the still-slight-puffy right side of his face. "Ken..." Just 'Ken' this time. But then recognition sinks in, and he nods, slowly. Asleep... figures. Fingertips reach out, now, delicately touching the other man's cheek, a ghost of a touch before he puts his hands in his lap again -- "I missed you, bakayarou." This last is said under his breath, so as not to awaken Ken.
Despite the relative lightness of Omi's touch, it does stir mocha lashes gently, a dim sliver of clouded blue drifting across to the blond's indistinct outline accompanied by a slight, lopsided upward curl of the corner of Ken's mouth, vaguer still. He's awake. Sure he is. Well, not anymore, but. You know what he meant.
"Thank you." This, softer still, Omi having seen that bare opening of Ken's eyes. He can't say more, with the other man still awake -- sort of -- so he settles for just reaching across, gently grasping Ken's hand for just a second to echo his words before he draws his paper onto his lap, absently swirling the pencil across it.
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Sometime during the middle of the night, now getting on towards -- perhaps eleven, perhaps twelve, Omi doesn't feel like checking his clock. The room is mostly dark, save for moonlight streaming in through the window and the green lights from his stereo, playing a Canada-jin band that he favors. Ken has long since passed out on Omittchi's bed, near the foot of it, snoring softly, legs over the edge of the bed facing the door. Occasionally Omi will look over at Ken before doodling on the pad of paper in his lap -- painkillers are good, but not always good enough.
The pajama-clad Aya shuffles slowly down the back hallway, fuzzy blue slippers slapping softly against the cold floor. Fingers tugging her braids loose, the girl pauses in hallway to work on a particular knotted area. Hearing the faint melody of a song, she knocks softly on Omi's door before peaking her head into the room. "Omi-san?" asks the wavy-haired girl.
Omi looks up curiously as the door is opened; spotting who it is, he nots, waving the girl in. He'd stand and let her in himself -- but he has a sleeping Ken to try and not disturb, and he can't exactly walk on his own at the moment /anyway/. "You're still up? Is everything okay?"
Smiling lightly, she carefully closes the door behind her, leaning toward the bed to look at the sleeping other. "Mm?.. Oh.. Just a little too much going on up here," she says simply enough, tapping her finger pads on her right temple. Letting a yawn escape from her dry lips, Aya sinks to a seat near Omi's feet, propping her chin in her palm.
"I know how that goes," is Omi's quiet return, hoping the darkness will hide the bare flick of his eyes to Ken's sleeping form, then attention settles kindly, unwaveringly, on Aya. The female one. Omi's still having a hard time with that Aya-is-Ran transition thing. "You wanna talk about it? Talking usually helps, after all, and if it would help you get it off your mind and sleep..."
"Don't worry about me, Omi," Aya returns somberly, "You have enough to do for yourself.. " She offers a bright, but brief smile before her eyes avert to her hands which constantly tug at her striped pajama bottoms. "I'm trying to get used to all this. I'm a little shaken up, that's all." She again, brings out that bright smile, the one to supress all worries, and melt all hearts. "I'm suprised they let you out already." She turns to a new subject when words fail the previous.
"I was there a week..." A week, enduring Hisoka's nervous jumpiness around Nagi, enduring Ken's brief visits -- brief to a boy who was on painkillers and thus unconcious most of the time, enduring very. very. bad. hospital food, enduring the cold sterility -- no, Omi's grateful to be home.
"This whole deal can be quite a lot to get used too, I know," comes the gentle murmur now, restless gaze falling on the window, gazing up at the silver-white moon. "And I don't have much to do right now anyway -- I'm under orders to 'vegetate', as KenKen puts it." KenKen. There's a new one from Omi.
"Mm... It's quite different here than.. where I came from," she says uneasily, the whole suject weighing heavily on her mind. "hm. It's all rather confusing." She scratches her creased brow lightly, her delicate shoulders moving in a dissmissive shrug. Never would she tell them how much she misses her old life, or how much she wants to go home.. back to farmiliar arms. She doesn't even toy with the thought, and it makes her cheeks flush with embarassment. "I should let you get some rest," she says lightly, retaining her brave smile.
"Aya-chan, you can stop trying to bullshit me." Harsh words from Omi. Blame it on the painkillers. "I know that mask, I wear it myself all the time. It's gonna kill you inside if you don't just spit it out -- and I think I know the problem. I miss my home. I miss the world I came from. I miss the familiarity, however... dangerous it was. I know."
Perhaps a little too harsh for the overly tired youth, who curls her knees to her chest protectively, willowy arms wrapping around her long legs. "I just need to get into the flow of things here," Aya protests weakly, staring hard into the shadows of the dim lit room. "I'm tired and I miss Ran. That's all."
A brief nod, overlong blond hair falling across his cheeks. "Aya no honto ni Ran, hai?" Omi sighs softly, unconciously reaching out to touch Ken's shoulder, to assure himself that yes, the man's still there. "I wish I knew how to help you..."
"No," she murmers softly, shaking her head in truth. "Any Ran.. Any pair of loving arms." She frows lightly, pressing her mouth into her knee to hide the action. "I do miss my old life, but I love everyone in this life just as much.. I just still have.. that new-faced edge to this life.." Resting her chin on her knee now she shrugs lightly, linking her fingers together.
Omi looks off, now, trying to figure out the best way to respond to this.
He doesn't have a clue.
Then, moments later, "You'll get used to it, Aya. You will. We all have to, after a while. And Ran-kun will get better soon, I'm sure... I mean, he's /home/ now, and everything..."
"Oh, I know," she murmers with as much confidence as she can instill into her words. "I suppose all of us being in the hospital at one time or another during the past month just shook me up a little. I'm just a little caught up in the emotion because of how tired staying in a bed for two weeks made me." Aya pats Omi on the knee lightly, stretching her sore muscles. "Everything will get better. No worries."
At that, Omi's eyes darken imperceptibly, perhaps going back to the thought of those rather pretty little bruises he left on Schuldich's neck. "Yeah. That would be enough to shake anyone up, wouldn't it?" Such a deceptively calm voice...
"Mhm. Being in there wasn't all that fun, but they treated me as well as they could I suspect." Aya smiles at the thought of the helpful staff, one of which she aspires to be one day.. "But how are you, Omi? You must be tired.."
"I'm alive," is Omittchi's sardonic return, eased by a gentle shake of his head. "Ah, I'm all right. My shoulder hurts.. my leg REALLY hurts... but I'm okay, I think... I'm not all that tired, though. I think from all the sleeping I did at the hospital."
"I can't say that I did much of that," she returns with a laugh, glancing over Omi's sore form for a moment. "So tell me, what happened to you, anyway? I'm out of the loop." Giving attention to her long, inky strands once more, she begins to finger-comb her way through the mess.
The voice that now answers Aya hovers somewhere between quiet and -hard-, the former starting to win out. "Schuldich happened to me. And to Nagi too." Omi struggles to pull himself back under control, the conversation with Ken from earlier now springing to his mind. 'Ken-kun... I feel like I'm losing control. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore...' Omi shakes his head, slightly, the navy in his eyes clearing, leaving them cerulean once more.
Alright. So she isn't /that/ clueless. Omi's distance is hard pressed to go unnoticed by the girl at this time. Shifting to her knees, Aya's delicate hand reaches over to grab for Omi's- as if she'd be the one to save him from falling. "It's alright now Omi. Look, everyone is safe and home." She smiles worriedly at the boy.
Omi returns that grip, gently, smiling back down at Aya in return as well. "Arigatou. I... brood too much, I think. I'm glad you came in."
Laughing softly, Aya stands some what stiffly, giving Omi's hand one last reassuring squeeze. "I know. It's easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of things, but I guess you just have to step back and look at the bigger picture, ne?" Tugging humbly at her pajama top, she sets his hand down lightly and kisses him on the forehead. "Have a good night, Omi.. I should go to bed.. Thankyou." With this, the smiling bishoujo turns to leave.
Omi blinks at that kiss on the forehead, then chuckles faintly, picking up his pencil again and looking down at his pad of paer. "Oyasumi, Aya-chan." And then, as the music switches from The Tea Party to The Calling, he goes back to his absent drawing, his eyes starting to close.
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Omi had long since fallen asleep, still sitting up, now propped up against his wall with a pencil still loosely held in one hand. That tablet of paper is still on his lap, scribbled all over with romaji scrawl and vague shapes -- some boxes, some circles, some hearts, some teardrops. His hair falls across his cheeks now, long enough that a few strands reach his chin, effectively half-curtaining his closed eyes. Were it not for the fading bruise... that would almost be a cherubic expression.
The transition from sleep into wakefulness is a swift but gradual process for the brunette sprawled nearly over the side of the bed, in a position much like that which he had originally fallen asleep in. Clearly the chibi's room is much more conducive to sleeping like the dead, though, as per usual, Ken comes to fairly quickly, albeit produced rather groggily following two long, deep breathes, azure sleep clouding away as turquoise seeps back into bleary irises. Sitting up slowly, the youth refrains from emitting groans and kicking generic _things_ off the bed as habit prompts, particularly when he espies Omi snoozing against the wall. It's early yet, Ken knows following a swift glance at the clock, and God knows when the blond fell asleep. He apparently drew a lot... blinking tiredly, the slim teenager leans forward in his cross-legged posture to peer idly at the paper in the chibi's hand, even if he's doing it /upside-down/. Ne?
Oddly enough, the words 'could it be any harder' and 'why won't you hear me' seem to be the most prominent (read: most legible) words written across his paper; the rest is all Omi-type doodling, hearts and stars and nekos and cubes, surrounded by idle swoops dissected by sharp angles -- in short, chaos.
After Ken resurrects the neurons required to decipher the scrawls, the frown that appears on his face looks marginally more alert, somehow, than before, turquoise eyes darkened to the forest green that tigers stalk. Ignoring the fact that Omi doodles like a girl, the brunette reaches over to tug the paper out of the slumbering blond's hands, fold it with long, deft hands and frisbee it across the air onto the table. Slim fingers then fasten themselves around Omi's thin wrist, pulling him gently into the pillows at the head of the bed -- else, the boy's gonna wake up with some Hell back ache, yo, supporting the gold-covered bowl of the boy's head with the flat of his other palm. Slowly, of course, in hopes that the boy won't wake up.
Omi whimpers a little in pain as his back tenses up, but somehow he manages to stay asleep -- for now, at least. With a bit of a sigh, he rests down against the pillow, his head turning to the left side so that the right won't come into contact with the pillow at all. Those eyes stay firmly shut, however, one hand reaching out for the little cyberneko who now comes up onto the bed, arching herself around Omi's head like a cybernetic halo.
Ken carefully settles Omi's seemingly frail figure into the comfort of blankets and sheets and overabundance of pillows, arranging the blond boy's limbs to relieve bruises of any conceivably painful pressure. Sitting back up with a sigh, the brunette pulls dark strands out of his eyes again, pinning them briefly at the crown of his head as he looks briefly out the window, streets still silvergray with emerging dawn. Early. Way too early. And he's tired, and wants to go to sleep, but can't or he won't wake up until it's too -late-. Heaving out another sigh, the dark-haired boy rolls his eyes exasperatedly at himself and slacks his slim frame until he hits the mattress lightly, levelling an inquisitive glance at Omi's sleeping face.
Omi is asleep... isn't he? But he now turns his head a little, a fleeting expression of pain marring the otherwise peaceful expression; after a few moments he settles, taking in a deep breath, letting it out, regaining the easy rhythm of sleep, perhaps aided by the too-even purring that now escapes Koneko Unit 2, settled protectively on the pillow near his head. Yep. He's asleep...
Chocolate-colored brows lower in concern at the snatch of pain flickered across Omi's face, long fingers reaching over to brush spun gold away from the tensed skin. Ken's tanned cheek nuzzles deep into the soft cushioning of the pillow, softened blue-shot green eyes nevertheless wary on the blond's unconscious façade as he touches the pale strands in behind the curve of the other boy's ear. When the silken locks are tucked away safely, the slender fingers hover there in apparent indecision reflected in the uncertain clash of hue on hue between kohl-dark lashes, the frown of the mouth peeking out of the pillow while the hand shaking ever so slightly like something far more fragile caught in a breeze. Oh God.
There's a bit of a sigh after that touch, the faintest raising of his chin as Omi unconciously tries to press into it; once it's done, with Ken's hand hovering there, he relaxes again, lips faintly parted. He turns his head just a little towards Ken, that simple movement again sending recalcitrant locks across his cheeks. Stubborn things.
Blinking, the blond bangs are then subject to a very withering gaze a vividly irate shade of green. A leather clad elbow is stuck out in Omi's direction in front of Ken, before he levers himself heavily onto it, ending, perhaps, more than a little -- /lot/ too close to the blond boy but -- well, distance miscalculations are rife when one wakes up while it's -- almost still dark out. Huffing mint-flavored breath light over the sleeping face, Ken carefully spreads long fingers out over Omi's cheek, throwing long, indistinct shadows over pale skin as they slip into gilded hair, combing them back smoothly over the side of Omi's head. Stopping a moment later, a few inches from the prone boy's face. Still, strife in colors ranging out through irises again.
A faint, sweet little whimper escapes Omi now, whispering a single word that, were one to be quite close, would be audible as Ken's name. But he's still asleep and deeply so -- KenKen might give thanks to the staying power of massive painkillers.
What, one might wonder, happened to Na-chan? To -- Ouka? To everyone who deserves the little boy so much more than the slim, dark teenager hesitating a just beyond the tip of Omi's nose? Chocolate-shaded lashes drop along with the teenager's chin in seeming defeat, off-green eyes as tired, borderline jaded as they never were once they flicker open again to silently study the slightly younger teen's face wearily. "Doushite, Omitchii?" His own whisper is little more than a delicately shaped breath cast over the smooth curve of the puzzling little boy's cheek, slim fingers tightening faintly on the soft gold strands. Like he could -reply-. "Doushite, baka chibi?"
The lattice-work shadows cast over Omi's cheeks by those impossibly long lashes flicker slightly as Omi settles himself a bit more, lifting his chin a little in response to that hand in his hair. He doesn't wake, not for a long while yet unless something were to occur that would bring him about much sooner. As it is, he just sighs slowly, a deep breath in that's let more slowly out, pursing faintly pink lips.
Ken's head tilts head slightly, the soft dark tips of his hair brushing lightly over the sleeping teenager's brow as he simply cups Omi's face with his hand for a long moment. Ch'. "I see you, you know," the brown-haired boy announces softly to the room at large, gaze shifting temporarily to the cyber-neko around the other's head. "and I hear you too. I'm not pretending not to. I don't know why -you- can't see /that/." Even, white teeth bite into a full lower lip briefly as he looks back down at Omi, eyes darkened to navy troubled with violet, of an impending typhoon under sunset. "You grew up. You fell in love. Ne, that's normal enough for teenagers, isn't it?" Laughter temporarily touching face and eyes fades abruptly enough. Ne. Some people just can't pull off the normal thing anymore. "Just wish you picked someone -better-."
"He talks to me, you know." This, suddenly, from the tiny little kitten who before had only mewed. Seems someone got ahold of a mod chip for his cat. "I... shouldn't... tell you, perhaps, but I think you need to hear." Think? Shouldn't? Perhaps? There's a whole hell of a lot of intelligence in this artificial cat, all wrapped up in innocent blue fur and fiberoptic whiskers, with a soft, sweet, clear voice.
Startled, the brunette stiffens and looks up at the cat with undiguised surprise scrawled over his tan face. Instantly, dark browns slam downward, the slim hand gently holding Omi's face snapping out like chain lightning to hover an index calculatingly just beyond its nose. "Watch your face, kittycat," the boy suggests, narrowed gaze gleaming bright phosphorescent green for a long moment, until his finger drops back, a loose clasp about Omi's cheek. "And if he ever hears anything I ever said, I swear..."
AI Unit "Koneko" v2.0.2 chuckles faintly, the sound more a purr than anything else. "Oh, I won't tell him. I watch over him, so no worries. But... do you know how long he's been watching you? Just how much he cares about you? Everything about you. He adores you. It took him /this/ long just to admit it to himself -- after all, he loved his parents, and they left him, he loved Ouka, and she was taken from him, he loved Nagi -- but then, this Nagi thing. He always knew he was second place, and he knew that Nagi was second place with him. He loved you first and foremost. But he couldn't tell you."
The shade of Ken's eyes and the alignment of the teenager's strong jaw, down even to the jagged fall of brown hair indicates rather clearly that he doesn't _begin_ to believe a single word from the AI Koneko, but then again, the threat is there as well. Nobody wants fake kitty brains smashed over wall. Right? Right. "I know," is the rather short, soft answer, gaze dropping to obscurity under kohl-dark lashes. "-Ev-eryone freaking tells me that, all right? I /know/."
AI Unit "Koneko" v2.0.2 picks herself up, stretching languidly before resettling with her tail curled around her legs. "What holds you back, Ken-sama?"
A light snort disturbs the dishevelled hair bridging Ken's face. "What do you think?" Dark lashes are still lowered, eyes regarding the threadwork of the blankets creased under his weight. "I'm not in love with him. Duh." Duh. Duhhh. Pretty blanket.
AI Unit "Koneko" v2.0.2 smiles -- actually smiles, what a disturbing idea -- up at Ken. "Are you entirely sure about that? Why don't you kiss him and figure it out for yourself?" Damn cat has a sense of humor.
Indigo eyes darken slightly as Ken glances up, the teenager apparently aware that the cat just _might_ be gasp. Teasing him. Being teased by fake blue cats doesn't come off well. "Like Hell," scowling darkly, his attention switches briefly back over to the blond boy, wondering, perhaps, if the peculiar conversation is disturbing his sleep. "I already figured it out for myself. It's everyone -else- -- including /him/ that can't get it through their *heads*, and God knows he'll wake -up- and -- I don't know, go into cardiac arrest or something." Huff.
AI Unit "Koneko" v2.0.2 smirks, hopping down from the bed and wandering out of the room now, her tail jauntily quirked at the tip. "He won't wake up," she adds, rather flirtatiously over her shoulder. Yup. She definitely has part of Freyja in her. "Trust me." And, with that, she wanders out, clicking the door shut behind her. Omi, for his own part, is utterly oblivious of the conversation going on around him, another long sigh slipping past lips that now remain faintly parted. What a picture he presents...
Watching the cyber-neko leave out of eyes sparking and flashing with the beginnings of lightning anger -- Ken liked the thing better when it didn't talk -- the teenager thus begins to feel remarkably unvirtuous, discussing the physical manipulation of the unconscious junior lying beside him. In bed. Hmm. Stifling the ridiculous urge to cringe and flee into the sanctity of his own bedroom, the brunette simply cradles the frail sculpture of Omi's cheek for a time, peering suspiciously down now and then -- but /mainly/, for some odd reason, at the door. -Hmm-.
No one understands him. Thank God, ne?
Head lowering slightly, lips a little too pink to be straight, sun-brushed caramel descend gently, quite tentatively down onto the paler, rosier pair beneath, breath coalescing warm and scentless between slightly open mouths.
And Omi responds -- slowly, sleepily, thinking himself just in a dream like so many other times. He responds, pressing back in return, head tilting just a tiny bit to put himself at a better angle. So many times has he imagined this in his head... A pity the poor thing's still asleep.
Nay, for then Ken would surely go into cardiac arrest. And nobody wants that to happen, ne? Eyes barely open, mere shards of a tropical cyclone dimmed and reverted to lazily lidded irises, to coolly and clinically gauge Omi's reaction, -almost- slip entirely shut on seeing the slightly younger boy's apparent obliviousness. Following one long, sultry breath through his nose to trickle gently down the side of Omi's face, the teenager instinctively deepens the kiss, tongue slipping soft, wet and faintly minty across the underside of the blond boy's upper lip in some ironic semblence of a permission request framed by the constant pressure of the rest of his mouth, gently dampening skin that was almost chapped by the other's open-mouthed breathing.
Hands, now, reach up for Ken, gently pulling at him; Omi's tongue slips back along the one pressing at his lips, gently teasing, one hand slipping up into that brown hair he knows so very well. This is a dream, for Omi. Thus, he's far less shy than he would have been had he been awake, the boy pausing a moment to suckle gently at Ken's lower lip in an almost teasing manner. Who would have expected this out of the chibi...?
Ken, maybe? He's been kissed by Omi-kun before, though not like this. Naturally used to being the more aggressive, masculine end in issues as these, it's a definite deviation from automatic action that stops his own hands from wandering away from the tightening grip on the coverlet and the touch against Omi's face. Heart and throat constricting painfully, the dark-haired youth forces himself still as the blond's delicate ministrations are applied to his lower lip, and the thick dark strands curling between Omi's pale fingers. OK. Stop. No actually, don't. The angle of the brunette's head is altered slightly, recapturing the teasing lips with his own, tongue slick and hot slipping free momentarily for a brief, far too heated caress -- before he draws back abruptly, careless that fingers might rip his hair out or -whatever- to sit up and wipe his mouth. Ahem. Right. Oh shit.
And /that/ -- that is what draws Omi awake, the boy breathing far too fast, trying to figure out in all the confusion why his lips feel so wet and why he's laying down and -- "K-ken...?" Whoa. Wait a second here. Going pale, now, eyes going impossibly wide in the predawn light -- "Ken? Was... Did you... Did I... What just happened...?" One hand reaches out, though, surreptitiously snagging a piece of Ken's shirt just in case the other boy bolts.
Leather doesn't take all that well to tentative grasping, and nor does, at the moment, Ken feel particularly kindly toward having a rapid exit prevented. A quick slim hand jerks backward, effectively fending Omi's intruding fingers off while the brunette steadfastly refuses to meet his gaze, guilt and confusion rife on his tanned face, and the technicolor storm of the gaze transfixed on the covers. "Nothing. Hi. Good morning. How do you feel? I think I'm going to get some breakfast." Damn it, where were his shoes again?
"/KEN/!" Uh-oh. Those beautiful blue eyes, gone pale with shock, now start to tear up, Omi looking up at his friend in utter confusion, a confusion that matches in depth if not in reason the emotion now tearing through Ken. "Dammit, KenKen, I swear to God if you go anywhere right now I'm going to hunt you down and beat you to death with my crutches."
Broad shoulders slump under dark leather, the expanse of the brunette's back facing Omi with an indifference that most certainly belies the bowed head ruffled by the younger blond's fingers. He probably couldn't run properly anyway: legs still recovering from spending hours in a crossed position, though the fine toned muscles are rapidly regaining pliability, hanging over the side of the bed. "Fine," he says finally, staring at his lap, "I'm sitting. What?"
Omi swallows hard, now sitting up a bit more to lean closer in, resting his weight on his knees as well as his right hand, the other resting across his legs. "You did what I think you did, didn't you. I want to hear you say it... and... don't go all defensive on me..."
"So maybe I did," Ken replies testily, interlaced fingers twitching on his lap under his own careful scrutiny. "It wasn't my idea. Your uhhh..." Chin lifting to stare at the mockingly closed door, the teenager then heaves out a soft sigh and plants his tanned features firmly into open palms elbow-propped on parted knees. This'll sound rich. "...cat suggested it."
A faint, momentary smirk escapes Omi -- before he reaches up, now, fingertips repeating their ghost's touch of the night before along Ken's cheek. "You... don't... have to be upset, you know..." Indeed. Though now Omi finds himself beating down a wild hope, forcing it down, forcing it /away/. A fluke. This has to be a fluke. Time and time again he's been shown that no one wants /him/...
The suntanned skin turns away at the featherlight brush of Omi's fingertips, indigo eyes glowering at the infinitely significant piece of floor beside his shoes from under lowered lashes. "You can't say that," it comes out grating, if quiet, one twitching hand suddenly run exasperated through tousled dark hair. "and -mean- it without even knowing /why/ I'm upset, you know." Which is exactly what Ken didn't want to say, because he's awful at explaining himself, but hopefully Omi won't want him too. Fascinating piece of floor, that. Ne. Don't worry, he won't cry. "Not like I -am- or anything." Of course not.
Omi blinks -- then draws back, almost tucking himself into the corner that his bed, also is tucked into. Ken didn't slap his hand away but it still stings as badly as that. "...No... No, I guess I can't." This last is soft, and rather hurt, and echoed by a soft gasp of pain as Omi manages to bang his leg a little as well as shift his collarbone a bit too much. Klutz.
"Omi?" -- indeed, even -now- after -- /everything/ -- and even more _nothing_, Ken can't help but twist around on his seat, concern lancing through the shadowed fear and pain that previously masked his face. "Hey, what did you do /this/ time?" Hauling one long leg up, the leather and denim-clad teenager affixes the blond with a frown that asserts itself even in a faint touch of green in deep purple-blue irises.
Omi shakes his head, then absently tosses his head to send blond locks back away from his face. "I just moved wrong... that's all..." What else is he to say? At least it's the truth. And there he stays, attempting to deal with confusion, hurt, and more than a little longing. Longing that he, as usual, is trying to force on the back burner.
The silence cools swiftly between them, the eyes of the brunette remaining on the blond's, still and dark -- at this distance, until Ken's palm ends up flat right in the middle of his own face accented with a sharp SLAP. "Shimatta," comes out rather muffled by the stinging smack. The worse -- or better part of the boy's nature finally having decided to assert itself, the teenager eventually pulls his hand free of his facade, levelling a clear, water blue stare at the other, something odd flickering incandescent with the miniscule nervous movements of his head, a hint of green spidering across the background too strong to be thwarted even as he makes some more or less futile attempt at schooling his tanned features into something -other- than base irritation. Just because he wouldn't be afraid now, would he? "I -- II made a mistake. And I owe you an explanation. Ne?"
"You don't need to do anything you don't want to do" is Omi's mechanical response, attempting a smile up at Ken now. Smile at the world, and maybe it won't hurt as much... No, he doesn't understand. At all. Nor does he uncurl himself from the tucked-into-corner ball that he's in. "Really, Ken-kun, it's okay." It's okay, even though he's hurting. It's okay, even though he doesn't understand. It's okay, even though he wants nothing more than another of those sweet, sweet kisses...
A long moment is spent staring stricken between boy and bed and ceiling and the brightening scenery outside the window, casting a fuzzy gray light over the side of Ken's face in slender threads through jagged dark hair, which promises today is going to be a fine, fine day. The violet and navy storm flickers through the youth's lowered gaze is barely visible, directed at long last to the long fingers tangled uselessly on his lap under eyelashes turned sable in the monochromatic light of near-dawn. A slight opening between lips, breath hitching up short somewhere in the depths of the athlete's chest -- but he plunges on nevertheless.
"I love you."
Like a knife right through the heart, baby.
"I mean it that way. I haven't always. I've loved you for longer than -- than I can remember, because I don't remember when it started, but it was recent. I just don't know when. First it was just like a little brother, for a really, really short time. Then a friend. But that was different, because now -- then -- I /fell/ in love with you, and I guess you'd think that was different... I didn't want to. I didn't want to love you. Or fall in love with you. Or anyone else."
"I don't deserve that anymore. I've killed so many people, and I can't just let that -go- -- whether or not the world's changed or /not/ because it's part of me now. It's not about everyone else not knowing what I am, and it's not about Kritiker disappearing. It's not about new chances. Because I am what I am, and I can't let that go, and I -won't- let it go. I guess someday living in Hell will catch up to me and everything, but even -then- I -- I just don't deserve it."
"Once, I'd say you didn't either, or Yotan, or Aya. I still don't understand -how- you guys can possibly *think* you can, but then... you aren't me. I wanted to ask you once. After you said that -- that you heard in your head, /her/," Ouka, "calling you a killer. And I said well, that's what you are. How can you _possibly_ think you /deserve/ someone to love you, and you to love someone back? Don't you remember all the people you've killed? And don't feed me that stupid line Kritiker kept giving us, over and over, -White- Hunter of the Goddamn night, vanquish the darkness -- I believe it, sure I do, but."
"Even they were innocent once."
"We don't deserve it. At least I didn't think we did."
"But I think now... maybe you do. Not just because you can -forget- when you dance with Reiko, and the boys and girls in Cyberia. Not just because you're *younger* -- because, well, you're not anymore. It's stupid, I guess. Fucking self-centered."
"I think you deserve it because I love you. As if what /I/ believe can change anything. God's word. What we deserve. Least of all what we -are-. But at least it changed what I thought about you. I could've sworn we were the most awful sinners in the world, that I should hate you for what you are because I hate -me- for what /I/ am, but for some reason, I can't. Maybe it should be sick that you can still love people and expect to be loved back, that you think your tears are worth something, that you can even -begin- to think that giving and giving until there's nothing left to give isn't how it's *supposed* to be. But I don't think so."
"You deserve more than that."
"I don't know why it hits so _hard_ every time I... I swear I'd do /anything/ for *anyone* that I fell in -- that I /loved/. Trust them with -everything-, even if it's beyond stupid. Family, before. The children, always. K-Kas -- Yuriko. None of the Weiss before you, though. I didn't even think we were friends." The familiarity of -that- line brings a vague, sheepish smile to his lips even now, studying the tensed knot of his hands on his thigh. "See, the -- the thing is, I loved them enough to leave them. Or kill them. Or let them go. Anything." The brunette's eyes close briefly, the ephemeral wink of a tear in early sunlight brushed off callously with a single blink.
"And I won't bitch about how much it hurts because that's just stupid too."
"I love you too. More. Maybe. Maybe just differently. Definitely not less than any of them. Maybe I shouldn't, but screw who says that because I *do*, and I always will. I'll probably even /die/ for you someday, even if it sounds really cheesy and Hollywood-sentimental right now. You'll get old, find someone else /nearly/ as beautiful as you, and do amazing things with your life, somehow, and I'll be there if you want me to, for you. And whoever it is you choose. Hell, even your kids if you get them someday. But I'll go if you don't want me there, as well."
"Ne? Omi?" The tears are forced back neatly from eyes the same hue as the eye of a storm might look, purple dissolved into blue scant in the same featureless, tortured darkness of...
"Ken?"
Omi says just the name, now, the faintest bit of a smile on his lips as he now manages to scoot himself a little closer to the other man.
"You're a fool."
"A damnably adorable, wonderful, too-sexy-for-his-own-good /fool/."
A bit more of a smile, now, Omi reaching up to touch Ken's cheek, to cup it, to make sure Ken keeps looking at him. At /him/. At eyes gone a vivid sapphire, that now sparkle with his own held-back tears. "You are what you are, though. A killer? Yes. But so am I. I never forget that. I never do. I don't consider myself worthy of love... but I'm not going to deny it either. Not anymore. I have a right to live, Ken. A right to love."
"So, too, do you. You're human, KenKen. Yes, we've taken lives. Countless lives. Yes, sometimes I wake up screaming over nightmares. Yes, sometimes I wish that things had been different."
"But they weren't."
"And that doesn't change the fact that I love you."
Now Omi tugs, gently, at the older boy's shirt, not allowing any arguement as he brings Ken closer. "Stop denying yourself. You deserve it." And that, to Omi, is that -- especially the way it's capped, with a waking version of that kiss, his lips pressing tight to Ken's will-he-nill-he, a hand going into those brown locks to gently cup the other man's head.
Surprised, crystalline green creeps gradually into the miserable dark velvet of the brunette's irises, wonderment growing edged with incredulity on the dark-haired teenager's tanned features. Scarlet touches Ken's cheeks at one moment, embarrassment, indignance straightening the full line of his mouth the next. Somewhere undefined in the back of his mind, protests are born and slewn as Omi talks on to produce the puzzled, stubbornly insistent, loving jumble of expression on the darker boy's face, the urge to look away trapped by the gentle clasp on his cheek.
"But -- mmph!"
No T-shirt this time, sunbrushed lips slacken with shock, unconsciously giving Omi better access to the warm recesses of the brunette's mouth. And then -- all of a sudden, long, leather-bound arms wrap close around the slightly younger boy, dragging bodies up -- gently but swiftly, closer still. The little blond's kiss is returned with all the heated fervor Ken can muster, eating away, tasting the silky wet flesh of the inside of the Omi's mouth with all the sweet, urgent hunger of love on its grandest, most desperate scale while a muffled murmur of something indistinct greets the feel of fingers through his hair. It would be so nice to believe him.
Omi presses himself up against Ken with a faint moan, his arms flying around the older teen's neck. His tongue sweeps in, pressing along the one it tries to claim, no longer caring about the aches and pains left over from his German Encounter. Those hands are restless, however, drawing down now against Ken's back, fingertips ghosting a touch down, back up, before settling on just keeping the brunette close to him. If only he knew, knew a way to /prove/ it -- but he's not thinking of proving it much longer, that same urgency flying through his own body, taking away the sweet shyness and replacing it with something begging, demanding, pleading, all at once...
And at least temporarily, anyway, the cold touch of doubt, the fear of growing inhumanity and everything else is incinerated in the deep heat in the friction of meshing mouths, tentativity burned all away with it. Though carnal violence is kept at bay, there's something a good deal fiercer in the grip long arms suddenly have around Omi's waist, reckless abandonment -- for once /outside/ of the battlefield closed dark lashes against tanned cheekbones. In the humid gust of faintly mint-crisp breath, the hot, slick tongue laces in between velvet lips to touch and tangle with its counterpart, mouth yanked and crushed against mouth as if in some peculiar confusion with the divison of separate physical being while the weight of the embrace dragging the dark-haired youth backward into the mattress.
This... this is heaven, this is sheer heaven, a heaven Omi clings to now as he falls with Ken, his hands sliding up the other's chest, teasing, tormenting with that whisper-soft touch; his lips never once waver from those that he'd been craving for so long, returning that heat and abandon just as freely as it's given. Hands now slide away from Ken's chest, across shoulders, up those well-muscled arms, clasping hands now that are pressed against the bed, Omi finding himself settling atop Ken's hips, pressing there, aching there as his lips now tear away, raining kisses down along the tanned skin of the older teen's neck, some soft, some hard, and all of them full of the need and longing he'd been trying to hide away.
Breath is caught somewhere in the back of Ken's maw when the mouth-to-mouth kiss ends, a groan forcing itself through parted lips only to turn into a low growl when Omi's lips touch the caramel flesh of his neck. A pleasant shudder that has nothing to do with lack of heat runs through the slightly paler flesh of his bared throat, tender skin pressed up into the blond's roving mouth as the pinned brunette instinctively arches against the mattress, from lean torso to slender neck, pelvis pressed up into pelvis despite the limbs captured down against the bed. Perhaps in some muffled attempt to squelch requests more vocal, the dark-haired youth sinks even teeth into his reddening lower lip. More.
"Ken..." His hands now trailing down the chest he has before him, Omi's lips follow quickly afterwards, desperate to divest the young man beneath him of this really rather annoying garment. It's getting in his way. Pushing up on it, his lips now encircle one dusky little nipple, his tongue swirling around it, teasing it, Omi occasionally pausing to breathe cool air across the wet skin only to lave it away with the heat of his tongue. Uncaring of his own clothing, he finds himself balancing on his knees now as his hands slide past Ken's waist, that feather-light touch starting to grow more firm, more sure.
Sweetness of soap, salt of sweat and heat and skin harden under the little blond's touch, a sharp hiss indrawn, an inarticulate cry expelled as the darker nub contracts under the pink tongue. As Omi's attentions drift along downward, naked sunbrushed skin jumps and shivers beneath pale fingertips, the faintest glitter of perspiration appearing over the smooth contours of toned musculature. The jacket is now flung awry somewhere else, shirt no more than a shapeless tangle on one arm, all clothing protection effectively exchanged for the electricity of human contact. Long, jean clad legs fold and clench behind the curve of the other boy's rear, thin gray ankle socks snagging awry as heels dig aimlessly into the bed, slim fingers catching desperately on bed covers.
That light tongue, skilled to the point of incongruency with that sweet, innocent babyface continues on over to the other side, now, the boy with the perfect aim now brushing his fingertips along the other's jeans, slipping the button open, the zipper down -- but there he stops, anxious kisses slipping back up to Ken's lips, Omi staying there, pressing there before hovering mere centimeters away from the other's lips. A silent request for permission before he goes farther, though those ever-restless hands slide along inner thighs, the nails dragging down the jean-clad legs. "Ken..."
Navy irises are clouded and dark in their soupy blue pigment, a different kind of storm regarding Omi from above tanned cheeks flushed with heated blood. For one long moment, rife with heavy breathing and hammering heartbeat through the thin cloth of Omi's shirt, it may perhaps seem as if Ken didn't hear a word the blond boy said. Then, in voice cracked and blistered with pent-up lust, "Do it, Omi," overfull lips tasting faintly blood despite unbroken skin with the promise of bruises cover the blond's lips briefly, before breaking apart with a sigh as the brunette's long, slim hands slide once through honeygold hair, combing the rich strands with hot fingers, shaking slightly mirroring the lean denim-bound thighs shifting under -Omi's- fingers. "--please."
Willingly, so willingly does Omi take his kisses downward again, whatever passion he had held restrained escaping the binds he had held them to now breaking free. As Omi travels downward, so, too, do those damnably restraining jeans of Ken's, the blond locks falling across his cheeks now as Omi draws his kisses lower yet, across hips, around the hard shaft of flesh he tortured his dreams with, never touching it, not yet -- not until, finally, the tip of his tongue finds the base, traveling slowly up, around, before pink lips are set around the head, suckling almost teasingly at first before his lips sink downward. Gag reflex? Nonexistant.
"--Omi!" A sharp gasp, perhaps some unrecognizable curse and Ken's spine arches again, pulling into a painful angle above the mattress as the slightly younger blond _finally_ takes his turgid length right into his mouth. Dark hair spills ragged over the pale cloth below his head as the teenager unconsciously reaches over to tangle his own hands, again, into the overlong gilded strands on Omi's head, the instinct to thrust straight into the boy's open lips countered by some vague notion not to. Between satin cheeks and silken tongue, the older assassin only only grows harder, slim legs parting, bent, digging into the bed to allow Omi a little room to work with, half-naked body forced still despite the tension running obvious through the smooth, caramel skin of his thighs half-stripped out of the conveniently loose jeans.
Those jeans find themselves traveling further down Ken's legs, Omi wobbling just a little as he shifts, managing to move around despite the cast on his ankle. The little blond moves to the side now, almost impatiently getting those damned jeans off of Ken completely, leaving his -- yes, his amante, indeed -- completely bare to his touch. He knows he should perhaps pay attention to other areas. He knows he should maybe tease, gently enough -- but too long has he wanted this to pull himself away now. That skilled tongue presses flat, now, inside his mouth, working against the underside of that ridgid shaft, occasionally darting up to circle around the head before Omi pushes down, lips flush to the base of Ken's shaft, suckling harder yet. Sometime in the midst of all of this, he shed his own shirt, using the only hand he really can -pull- with, his right hand.
Under different circumstances, Ken might be protesting the obvious inequality between partners of the current situation. The brunette, however, sprawled out perfectly naked in all his slim, tanned splendour -- if you don't count what Omi's mouth is covering -- seems completely unaware of his relative vulnerability. Long fingers slip nerveless through Omi's hair, over the curve of the blond scalp beneath as he apparently throws every jangling nerve into enjoying this incredible experience -- and resisting the urge to end it, off-goldskinned legs straining visibly on either side of Omi's head while sweat trickles thin and vague across the muscled abdomen clenched in over the unbearably tight-strung arch of his back. Almost --
Nimble fingers, so used to typing for hours upon hours now tease along inner thighs again, sometimes a little harder with the backs of his fingers -- until one, slickened by a surreptitious touch to a bottle of lotion, now finds its way down between those muscled thighs, stroking gently, coaxing, goading to be let in, the finger hooked just slightly...
Now Omi leans in, the middle finger slipping in to the first knuckle, never once letting up on the suction kept up within his mouth, his tongue still dancing, teasing across the ridgid shaft. But he doesn't want Ken to release -- not yet, not yet -- there's something he wants to /do/ first...
The lean thigh shudders beneath the slender fingertips ghosting down along hypersensitive skin, tightening with a jerk with the first touch between buttocks tensed hard, almost pulling away were it not for the delicious _grip_ of Omi's mouth on him. "Omi..?" wrought in the midst of gasps and moans, the single spoken name tells volumes, perhaps -- rather late now -- shyly, though Ken doesn't lift his head to look. Forcing rebellious sinew and muscle to relax, however, he rather tentatively accepts intrusion into the hot, damp opening into him.
"Shhhh..." This whispered reassurance is given as Omi pauses, his hand stilling before that finger slips in just a little deeper. "Shh... just relax. If you relax, the pain goes away and it feel incredible." For a moment -- just for a moment -- Omi smiles faintly, realizing how odd it is for -him- to be the instructor, the comforter rather than instructed and comforted. Then attention is diverted by the lack of flesh between his lips, dancing tongue and teasing lips suddenly far more /insistant/, trying to coax that release now, his finger hooked just -so-...
What was that, a whimper? Something like pain infringes on the sanctity of feverish heat, perhaps only the unfamiliarity of the sensation drawing that odd sound out of the brunette's bared throat as puckered muscle is forcibly relaxed, pelvis unconsciously squirming slightly against the blankets.
It doesn't last long.
"Nnnn--!" As the blond's finger angles in just so, the warm mouth claiming him again. Only briefly do Ken's toes curl instinctively against the rucked up cotton beneath the soles of his feet in some semblence of resistance. Sweat rises from off-gold skin, slim legs kick lightly, aimlessly once as a harsh breath breaks free of straining, sweat-slicked torso, plummeting octaves into a feral /yell/ that comes with the seal of flesh around Omi's finger, and the hot spurt of release into the other boy's mouth.
Success. Omi continues to stroke, gently, very gently with his finger just a few more times before slipping it back out with a wipe against a handy towel, yet never once does he pull his lips away from the shaft inside his mouth, occasionally his tongue swirling about the top; after a few more moments of this he carefully pulls off, turning his head now to one inner thigh, kissing his way up along it in an almost wondering manner. He's not sure if Ken will reciprocate -- best not to ask, not to assume, and simply accept things as they are, lips exploring these well-muscled legs he'd watched for so long.
Minutes trickle off into the morning gloom, the dark-haired teenager's gasps fading off into a steady, breathless pant, dark lashes laced through with intricately beaded tears unshed. Slowly, sleek, damp skin slides away under the soft pink frame of Omi's mouth, taking the gentle spice of scent and taste with them as long limbs push Ken gradually enough into a half-sprawled sitting position sufficient to regard his lover from. Beneath the ragged fall of dark hair, irises a fuzzy silvered indigo with post-coital lethargy shift to gaze at the other boy, tanned features too thoroughly wrung out with pleasure to be readable -- bar the odd smile aligning flushed lips. For a long moment, Ken just watches, slowly pulling one leg up against his chest to lean rather heavily against, the short-nailed toes of the other pinching idly at the blond's trouser-clad thigh.
Omi returns that smile, a bit of a flush now staining his cheeks as he runs one hand through those overlong locks, dragging his blue gaze up to rest on Ken's. Then, wobbling a little, he manages to get himself fully up atop the bed again, beside Ken, firmly ignoring the twinges of pain shooting up from his left shoulder. Idiot, watch it next time. Not exactly knowing -what- to expect, he simply loses himself in that indigo regard, that smile becoming a little broader as the red in his cheeks grow. He's still not exactly used to being the one -starting- anything... Despite the few occasions with Nagi where that was the case.
Nor has the color cooled from KenKen's cheeks, though it's probably momentary weariness that prevents them from further reddening in suit. What -Omi's- never done has nothing on /his/ relative inexperience, despite gentle nagging and squeals of KEEEN! borne in sagely silence. Following a few minutes of silent eyeballing, a blush beginning to chase itself over his face right at the dark tips of his hair, the brunette's temperament finally decides to resurrect itself. Canting his head, the ambitious toes in question are slipped over the seams of Omi's trousers, sliding over the firm leg beneath to stop, inquisitively, to rest lightly against the juncture of threadwork, a gentle pressure on the blond boy's crotch.
A shiver is Ken's reward, as well as a soft moan; Omi finds himself needing to lay down, on his back, one hand reaching up to trail gentle fingers across the other boy's cheek, down that smooth neck, over one shoulder. "Ken?" comes the inquisitive, the hopeful whisper, blue eyes blinking just once before a hand comes up to push long blond locks out of his face. "Was... was that okay...?"
"Yeah," there's a tiny wry twist to the brunette's tone of voice, the dim bite of sarcasm echoed by the tugging clip of even teeth on the coral pink shell of Omi's ear, instants before the familiar reminiscence of Ken's breath touches it: "sure. It was 'okay'." Crouched gargoyle-like, again, only much -closer- this time, the dark-haired teenager ducks his head curiously past the blond boy's cheek, contact limited to the gentle breeze sent out from between lightly closed teeth as -- strangely enough, one of Ken's bare knees digging into the mattress slides gradually askew, incidentally poking in between the blond boy's thighs. Dexterous as a kitten's forepaws, one slim hand, then the other slip slowly over Omi's leg, bringing bare chest forward to only just *barely* graze the paler skin opposite while the pink tip of Ken's tongue fishes outward to taste the tender juncture between shoulder and neck, before biting down lighter still.
Omi makes a sound rather like a kittenish mew, his breath catching, his mind going on autopilot. Whispering the other boy's name, Omi now just lets his eyes close, a soft whimper escaping him, that innocent, almost angelic look back in his expression as he lets his head come to rest against the pillow, head haloed by those blond locks. Hands anxious for /something/ to do now slip into brown silk, cupping the back of Ken's head as Omi arches upward slightly, turning his head slightly to bare neck and shoulder to the other's ministrations.
Rough play temporarily spent, the dark-haired teenager attends the blond boy with distinct gentleness, less the way one fine male would treat a girl than something stupefyingly precious. A moment is taken to tease the warm skin just above Omi's shoulder with pale teeth, before combing wetly upward, breath chilling the damp tracks left behind before sun-brushed lips again cover his teeth in order to run silken over the nearly ivory skin neatly straight up the center of the blond boy's throat. An odd little murmur of some endearment comes out like a purr from almost closed lips, vibrating into the spread of fragile, ghostly skin at the underside of Omi's jaw until, at long last, Ken nuzzles gently over the blond boy's chin, mouth finally grazing mouth. The teenager's weight shifts forward on lithely muscled shoulders and arms, tongue questing in time with the bump of his knee rocking gently into the tension between Omi's legs.
Returning that kiss with a faintly strangled moan, Omi finds himself opening up, thighs spreading instinctly apart at the same moment that lips part for that questioning tongue, the hands at Ken's head pressing a little harder now to keep the other boy close. His shorts are definitely starting to get rather -- tight, one might say, almost painfully so, his fingers gripping a bit tighter into that silken hair. "Ke~en" is whispered out, more a moan than a word, against the older teen's lips.
"I'm not -really- sure how to do anything," the brunette finds it necessary to admit in a whisper just about directly into the other's mouth, almost sore lips brushing past Omi's with every syllable. The boy's eyes, shadowed by strands tangled into the blond boy's pale fingers, are an intensifying shade of blue-flushed purple, energy flickers of white-green kept to an ephemeral pulse better felt beneath the smooth chest pushing down on the slightly younger boy's torso. "But I get this funny feeling like you'd kill me with your crutches if I just _left_." Of course -Ken- grins at the hypothetical predicament, albeit without any malice as the knee pressing steadily against the thickening bulge caged in cloth. Kohl dark lashes drop -slightly-, again, so that the boy still watches while he shares another warm, fragile, frictionless kiss, tongue caressing lovingly smooth. Then -- rather abruptly, the toned muscle of Ken's leg contracts /hard/, naked flesh executing an experimental flex into the intersection of short seams, roughly squeezing right in against the aching heat captured beneath.
~ * ~ † ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
Come and lay right on my bed, sit and drink some wine
I'll try not to make you cry
And if you'd get inside my head, then you'd understand
Then you'd understand me
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
Why I've felt so alone, why I kept myself from love
And you became my favorite drug
So let me take you right now and swallow you down,
I need you inside
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
If we had this night together
If we had a moment to ourselves
If we had this night together, then we'd be
Unstoppable
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
Do you think that this is right, or is it really wrong
I know that this is what we've been wanting
And all this is burning in my soul, it fills up to my throat
It fills up till my heart is breaking
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
If we had this night together
If we had a moment to ourselves
If we had this night together, then we'd be
Unstoppable
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
Now, we can both learn
Somehow, you'll see it's all we have
Love, it keeps us together
and I need love
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
When I wake up without you, knowing you're not there
I'm only feeling half as good
Well I'm gonna find a way
To wrap you in my arms, you make me feel alive
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~
If we had this night together
If we had a moment to ourselves
If we had this night together, then we'd be
Unstoppable
~ * ~ § ~ † ~ § ~ * ~