Where the White Boys Dance
They picked the club because it was the darkest and noisiest and closest to the center of Shinjuku, obvious enough to be almost obscure and it was really the best place to find each other randomly, or as randomly as it might appear to an outsider. There was no clear pattern to it, nothing for any prying eyes to report on, nothing for his teammates to notice. Oh, Omi went out clubbing for the night, nothing strange or suspicious about that. It was just something he did.
The problem, of course, was actually meeting at all.
That part, unfortunately, was left to chance and whether or not either of them were occupied with work or other obligations, whether or not either of them decided to make the trek out here in the hopes that the other would show up. He'd gone home unfulfilled so far, all told over the last several months, a total of twelve times. He'd kept careful count, and so far his score beat Schuldig's.
Tonight the air was a smoky mess and the multicolored lights over the dance floor illuminated even less than usual. He'd come in a pair of clingy black slacks and a fishnet shirt, long-sleeved, something that had sat in the back of his closet since its unfortunate purchase sometime when he was a first-year--he'd only worn it because he knew Schuldig would actually like it, but at this point he was beginning to regret the decision, as many of the club's other patrons liked it equally as well.
He entertained ideas--briefly, because he was in the usual habit of thinking as loudly as possible, which he had to do anyway to hear his own thoughts over the pulse of earsplitting techno and god knew how Schuldig heard anything in this place, but maybe that was a positive--but he always retreated before any flirtation or suggestion got too serious. Because that, that would be--
What? Cheating? To be cheating at all Schuldig would have to be his... something. There was a word for that, but Omi was staunchly disallowing it from forming in his mind because if he did that would mean acknowledgment, and that would mean all this was really serious.
It was during one of these moments--one of these entertainments, willowy boy about an inch taller than him with dark, dark eyes and glitter on his shoulders from the clouds that erupted from the dance floor from time to time, and the way he smiled was pretty and sometimes he'd lean in close to talk in Omi's ear when the music was too loud to hear anything further than an inch away. It was exactly in that moment, actually, that he looked across the tables and saw Schuldig perched at the edge of a booth, elbows on his knees and that smug-fucked smirk on his face, hair pushed up under a black beanie because all that red hair was a bit too noticeable. And he was chatting up some small, cute thing in cat ears curled up on a chair and nodding at him at the appropriate intervals amongst said chatting.
Fuck, he looked good--strip of leather tied around his neck and practically nothing of a collar, all that skin straight down to his chest--but that was beside the point. Omi felt a scowl forming across his face, despite the fact that he himself was all but being necked by a boy with a pretty smile. And he was really closer than necessary, now, one hand on his hip and lips brushing his ear as he spoke. Something about graphic design, he wasn't really paying attention, but he took the thoughts that came with these sensations and amplified them as much as he knew how, and stared across the room to where Schuldig was sitting. Waited for him to notice.
And notice he did, with a casual slowness that informed Omi he was perfectly aware of his presence and what was occurring over by the bar, was unperturbed by it and furthermore--his eyes met Omi's through the haze of smoke, one brow raising slightly. And what that meant was, 'How poor of taste do you really have if you're paying attention to that instead of me?'
Schuldig's attention promptly returned to the cat-eared whateverthefuck--was that a boy or a girl? And the pang of jealousy that shot through Omi's body was probably audible. At least to any telepaths in the vicinity, of which there was at least one.
(But to be cheating, he'd have to be--)
"Sorry." It was probably shorter and more impolite than necessary but Omi's patience was thinner than normal, jealousy clawing at his insides and he did his best not to shove pretty-smile boy away, making it mostly a slip off the barstool and an apologetic pat. "I have to go take care of something."
The guy looked upset, a little hurt, but--he'd find someone else, and Omi had no business flirting that much with him anyway, and all of that was inconsequential, ultimately, because Schuldig had that little boy/girl/cat-thing off the chair and crouched by his knees to listen to whatever he was saying (yeah, right) and he still had that smirk on his face and he had to know Omi was there. That Omi had squirmed away from his admirer and was storming between the tables, half-tripping over a chair to close the distance between them.
The gender-indeterminate cat-thing was wearing a hoodie, which made a perfect handle by which to lift it up and away from Schuldig and his knees and deposit back somewhere further away. Not far away enough, unfortunately, as there was not an ocean nearby, but further away from Schuldig than Omi was would be satisfactory for now.
He thought about it--climbing into Schuldig's lap right there and shoving him back against the booth, kissing hard and fast and grinding in time until he remembered just who he'd come to this club to meet to begin with. Not some stupid kid in a hoodie and cat ears.
Schuldig was grinning like an idiot, though, so Omi brought that train of thought to a halt, scowled harder and grabbed Schuldig by the wrist, hauling him out of the booth and away through the crowd, around to the hallway that ran perpendicular to the one leading to the bathrooms--the one that lead to the side exit they snuck through occasionally on nights when the hair on the back of Omi's neck was prickling, when he knew he'd been followed.
It was even darker, back there, but after a minute or so to adjust he could see the outline of Schuldig's face by the light from the exit sign.
Omi folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. "Enjoying yourself?"
Schuldig mimicked his movements, arms crossed over the front of his barely-buttoned shirt and continued grinning, although it was more of the smug-fucked grin than the idiot one he'd been wearing a moment ago. "I am now."
The worst part, Omi figured, was that he couldn't really bitch about catching Schuldig in a moment of flirtation with someone else, as he himself had been in the exact same position--or he could, actually, but it would be hypocritical and Schuldig would be quick to point that out. Instead, he chose to bypass any argument that might come of all this and crossed the hall to lean in against him, hands on his elbows and up on tiptoe to press their foreheads together. "You didn't really want that... whatever it was more than me, did you? Because if you did I'd be glad to leave you two alone together. I hear furries are pretty kinky."
"Not really." Schuldig shrugged, a kind of bored tone to his voice. Unruffled, of course. "He just wanted to suck my dick with the ears on." Slight shrug when Omi huffed in response and then lifted a hand to his shoulder, pushing a bit. Not away, just back towards the entry and the smoky lights and music pouring through it. "Come here."
Omi moved with him--noticed how they didn't so much as break apart or rescind their position as shift it, rolled the point of contact to the side so they could both walk, move back into the pulse of the club and the noise and the dark that wasn't totally dark. Never stopped touching.
Back in the main room he didn't seem to care where they went--ended up at the edge of the dance floor where the press of bodies wasn't so close and Schuldig stood behind him, arms around his waist and chuckled in his ear. And that was mostly a show because everyone could see them now, the kid with the cat-ears and the pretty-smile boy at the bar, and presumably Schuldig was pleased by that.
(But this reminds you of the first time, doesn't it?) Schuldig was warm against his back--and yeah, it did.
"This isn't working," Omi said; had to tilt his head back to say it so Schuldig would hear.
"Shh." Schuldig's mouth was pressed up right against his ear, the sound vibrating damp against it and his arms tightened slightly. "I've got something important to tell you."
Omi observed the dance floor, sweaty grinding and clouds of glitter and smoky light show and all. "Really."
"See that one?" Schuldig's hand lifted into his line of sight, gesturing to one side, someone dancing further in the crowd and he caught the bare edge of a glance in their direction from the person, tall guy with long hair, before he noticed them looking and directed his attention elsewhere. "He saw you walk in, wanted to pull your hair and fuck you over the bar." His hand moved back, fingers coiled in Omi's hair and brushed it back, smoothed it down to his neck before pointing out another--bleach blond at a table with some others in too much glitter. "That one," he murmured, voice closer and hotter and damp against his ear, "saw you at the bar, entertained ideas about licking you from chin to belly button," the hand returned to his neck, traced a slow line through the fishnet over his chest, slow rub all the way down to his waist and Omi tilted his head back, instinctively, and shivered, "and figures you whimper like a little girl."
Schuldig chuckled in his ear, softly, barest lap of tongue against the lobe and then pointed out one more--guy leaning against the bar, spiky hair, toned muscles under a white tee. "That one saw you last time, he's been waiting to find you again because you remind him of his ex-girlfriend." The arm around Omi's waist tightened, Schuldig's hips pressing a little closer to him, suggestively, their bodies nearly flush with each other now. "He wants to tie you to the bed and fuck you until you cry."
The tone of his voice killed the suggestion somewhat; it was terse and annoyed and somehow the press of Schuldig against his back became more protective than anything. Omi shifted in his arms until Schuldig hummed in contemplation. "And your boy with the pretty smile...?" He left the suggestion hanging there until Omi squirmed and tilted his head back, considering.
"Whatever, he wanted in my pants, that much was obvious." In this position he could mostly see the curve of Schuldig's cheek, the line of his eyebrow and the red bangs hanging out from under the beanie. "What?"
"He keeps rohypnol in his pocket." Schuldig declared this in the same matter-of-fact fashion he'd declared Mr. Cat-Ears's intention to suck him off. "He likes 'em best when they lie still... like dolls. That's fucking kinky."
"That's fucking illegal." Omi made a noise that was like self-deprecation--who was he to judge, really, aside from the fact that he killed sickos like that for a living. Turned abruptly in Schuldig's arms to face him and look at him properly. Him, rather than all the people surrounding them and whatever any of them thought they wanted to do with either of them. "Why are you telling me this?"
Schuldig was still staring, over his shoulder and across the room and the way his eyebrows lowered made it pretty clear that the stare was directed at that boy, the one by the bar with the pretty smile. Omi pressed closer, slid his arms around Schuldig's neck and when his attention returned it was with a singular focus. Eyes hot and intent and a curve at the corner of his mouth.
"Because I don't fucking share."
Omi smiled, just a little--maybe because that was something like a sentiment; leaned up further and pressed closer and wrapped his arms tighter and kissed him, quick and warm and breathed against his lips afterwards, watched the smirk spread across his mouth. "Let's get out of here."
The side door opened to a dark alley, cool with the evening and dim with the angle of streetlights, and after that there wasn't much concern for noise, or smoke, or what other boys were thinking about.
What would be so wrong, really, with skipping the hotel and the heart-shaped bed for one night? The wall was closer and Omi was closer than that—warm, sweat-damp and glittery. His hair was a mess, his thoughts were scattered here there and everywhere, riding along some line between what those men wanted, was Schuldig lying (of course not, Omi wouldn't think that, not really, he knew the truth when he was told it) and then there was that amusing little count that he was keeping about unsatisfied. Fuck the bed, fuck the idiots, he wanted to stay right here, outside where the music didn't deafen him and he could still hear the moron inside mumbling over this sudden idea he had about—
A laugh in his chest that he wouldn't be able to explain and maybe testing out Omi's tolerance for things like that was bad. God (not that he believed in the fucker), couldn't they just go back to the booth, to Omi's hand and his thoughts and all that intention about shoving him down and grinding. (Your stupid fucking mouth always gets you in trouble…) Yeah, it got him out of trouble too. Look at that wall, wouldn't take too much, shove Omi against it, silky soft feeling against his skin, felt it brushing along the edge of Omi's consciousness—sensory perceptions now…if he got much deeper into his mind he'd be curled up in his subconscious, snoozing along like a computer virus—he stopped, fingers against the back of Omi's neck—(you're high) naw, only half—and felt the way his fingernails were hard, his skin was soft, tacky drag of skin to skin and all those scattered thoughts consolidating down into something—
(He won't let you; too dangerous even in the dark.)
Schuldig let his finger slide down, tracing a drop of sweat, out of his hair, down his neck, detoured, slipping around to the little hollow the side of his neck, Omi was turning around to look at him maybe, and he found the edge of that shirt, fishnet. He looked good, he looked like they thought he looked—fuckable, desirable, like he would ride them until they passed out and be there asking for more when they woke up, whimpering, whining and blushing like a fucking well-trained whore. Schuldig let his thumb drag down his throat, riding over that little bump and felt the shiver that started somewhere in Omi's mind and spread out—whole body, goosebumps on the backs of his arms. Just because it was cold, that was all. Just cold—didn't miss Schuldig nearly as much as he thought he did. (Couple of addicts playing fools, that's what you are.)
Love; it was there and all the words Omi didn't want to think that followed it along like obedient beaten dogs (lover, you mean, love mouse, pet names, commitment, forever, what the hell are you doing?). Some passing wonder about where they were going to end up this time, one of those pay by the hour hotels, no questions because the purpose was all very obvious, sneaking in and sneaking out (covering up your hair, fuck it, man you've got it bad). Omi's eyes staring at him and then his voice: "What?" Didn't sound like his thoughts, didn't sound like the mantra of sex and sweat that they weren't that far away from, a hundred bodies in there and minds all pulsing with the same mindless bump and grind, soaked through with the beat of the music that deafened your ears and your senses; drugs, alcohol and idiots.
Not for the first time, Schuldig half wished Omi was taller. Felt a smile across his face that wasn't cruel or mocking (oh, but it could be, easy) he moved. Saw himself like a blur in Omi's mind, felt the way their bangs brushed together, the texture of his thumb at Omi's chin, his fingers that were too warm, sweat damp, across his cheek, the weight of his presence and that taste on his breath that was—sweet? Seemed strange, not alcoholic... Omi moved with him at least, turned toward him enough, tilted his head. One hand against his shirt, his chest, the bare touch of a thumb that shot through his body like electricity. The other around his neck, pulling down. They should have stumbled, nobody would have noticed, two drunks stumbling around an alley against a wall in the cool of the evening, like every other set of fools. (Addict.) Lips at first, that was all, teasing brushes of their mouths, weeks of waiting, days of wondering if this time would be the time they got it right, Omi replaying how it had gone, unsatisfied he'd said—no sex and more than that, he remembered other things, small touches. Schuldig touched his chest, hand over his heart, pushing against the shirt, the pattern of little diamonds and felt the weight of it echo in Omi's mind, how he wanted it and shouldn't, the way he sighed against his mouth—
Roughness of the grip around his neck, pulling him down and Schuldig did push him then, back, stumbling, toward the wall. Impact, scrape across shoulder blades, he felt it across his own skin like a blush, felt Omi's want and need and his own (and that love, don't forget that, fucking addict), put his own hand against the wall, leaning down again (consider a portable step stool, think of all pain in the neck you'll save yourself.) Licked his lips, watched Omi staring at his mouth and then looking up, eyes half closed, smile in his mind that didn't make it to his lips, they were so temptingly parted, and there and then Schuldig kissed him. It wasn't sudden—long overdue—the hand around the back of his neck, Omi raising up on his toes, Schuldig's hand on his side, feeling the muscle pulled taut there and—(could be naked with the cat boy, you know)—
Laughing somewhere, not too far away, didn't take half an effort to shove the drunk and chattery minds in the opposite way, didn't need company. Both hands down on Omi now, up and down on his chest, restless, just dragging his palms and creating friction, just to feel and feel it on his own skin. Fingers toying with the little bits of hair at the nape of his neck that had gotten loose and Omi complaining or protesting about how he wanted all of his hair and it wasn't there. Couldn't have it, had to hide. (Ridiculous.) They were too far apart, Omi was too damn short and he bent his knees, one hand against the wall again—breaking apart for a breath, eyes closed and just— Omi turned his head, back toward the club, toward the people that were sure to come this way eventually, the tips of his fingers under the edge of the stupid beanie and frustrated. Just frustrated—opening his mouth to say they should move on, should go somewhere else, should get inside where the walls would protect them and they could strip down and do all this for—Schuldig kissed him again. His hand curved across the top of his head, caught in his hair, tipping his head back again and kissed him.
(Can you get track marks from this kind of stupid?)
Fists in his shirt, balling up the fabric, the bitten back noise in Omi's throat he wasn't about to make here but damn it all, if this didn't stop he would. They needed somewhere else, somewhere warm, somewhere behind closed doors and Schuldig tightened his hand in Omi's hair, loosened, let it slip down, back against his cheek, didn't want to let go, feeling the way their mouths moved together and then the throb in his gut and his hips and Omi wasn't that far from irrational himself—(but the idiot with the pretty smile inside the club, he was pushing open the bathroom door, getting fuzzy, starting to wonder...)
"Damn," Schuldig breathed out, hand back against the wall like holding himself up. Looking at Omi as he settled back on his feet, breathing heavy and contemplating how bad it would be really just to not stop, his hands itching to keep touching until Schuldig could feel it in his own (or maybe it was always there, can't blame everything on the little addiction).
But it was cold. "We're," Omi started when his breath had maintained any level of respectability but his hands hadn't stopped itching. Made him stand up straighter just to put space between them, not nearly close enough to touch, rub and grind now. It put weight behind his words that they didn't need, Schuldig appreciated the effort anyway. "Not doing this here. I want a bed."
There were a hundred comebacks and Omi was half expecting them. Mocking him about standards, prices and being a chick with all his stupid little needs for comfort and--Schuldig nodded instead. Let his hand fall away from the wall and wiped at his mouth, smeared the taste of grime and dirt across his lips. (Yes well, most addicts were idiots.) "Let's go," he said.
The bed they ended up with was large, round and positioned underneath a mural that was supposed to make you feel like you were under the ocean--the whole room was like that. Had all manner of potential to be really attractive but what did that matter really, they didn't come to these dumb hotels for the atmosphere (and after the last time he was under the water, his love for it wasn't exactly overflowing). There was some little instruction sheet on the control panel that must have explained all the nice features the room had to offer for the intrepid young couple that needed a nice comfortable place to have sex--a mini bar with all manner of alcohol and a sheet of paper advertising all manner of rentals. Costumes, equipment and the same things the last place had, and the one before that.
Strange minds, fluid, flowing, chaotic and crushing in like waves. Omi's hand was on his elbow, the other yanking the hat off his head, tossed it somewhere behind him and who cared what happened to it now? Omi wanted to touch his hair, wanted to feel it between his fingers and make sure it was how he remembered it; Schuldig grinned at him. Height had its advantages, really. He reached down to catch the edge of the shirt--should burn it, make sure Omi never wore it anywhere again. Tugged it up and it came easily, Omi's arms already up like they were, over his head and tossed it the same way the hat had gone. Traced his fingers back down, started at the elbows, skating light across skin, tipped his head back to make his hair fall back, felt the tangles, felt how it didn't fall quite right sweaty and stuck under the hat like it had been, Omi's hands were on his shoulders now, trying to pull him down. Shivered, maybe, when Schuldig's hands drifted down, too close to his shoulders, and shifted, backs of his fingers just touching--smiled when Omi frowned at him.
(Don't think he finds it nearly as amusing as you.)
No, he probably didn't. Schuldig grabbed his hands, fingernails were starting to dig into his skin and that was no good. Grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands off, palms to palms and pushed him back. "Want something?" (Sure, arm wrestle him. He'll kick your ass.)
"Yes," but you already knew that. A smile, just a little one, and then Omi took mental stock of the room. Habit, really, you didn't survive as an assassin without taking stock of the room--he knew the whole layout better than Schuldig did with even less of a glance. Of course he did, and the bed was in that precise direction and to throw Schuldig off balance he had to twist his hand precisely this way. It worked every time you weren't fighting a telepath, surely. (Oh don't fool yourself, it'll work this time too.) Probably would, but he wanted to play it out anyway, countered the move, almost threw Omi off balance, quick and silent steps of socked feet on the carpet (think of what's in that rug) and another attempt, almost got him that time, they were back to facing the right way, his back to the bed and Omi pushing against him. Brute strength for such a short guy, but his fingers and his arms were strong enough. Schuldig stumbled, Omi smirked and about the time his knees hit the back of the bed (just like the walking addiction wanted). Schuldig tightened his fingers around Omi's and yanked his arms up. They knocked together, Omi objected somewhere between his mind and his mouth (hard to tell when he's thinking and talking anymore isn't it? That's no good) and he shook one hand free, grabbed him by the face and kissed him. Laughed; and hard fists were shoving his chest so he fell backward. That was fine, he pulled his knees up, heels on the edge of the round bed and shoved himself backward--shoulders dragging the silky rustling sheets with him.
Omi grabbed his knee to keep him still, grinning at him and crawled up on the bed after him (those stupid son of a bitches at the club, they never thought of this). Schuldig laughed louder, Omi sliding up between his own thighs, moving his legs so they were straddling Schuldig's stomach and his hand hard against his chest, tearing the last button on the shirt but fuck the buttons. (Yes, you can always mindfuck someone into buying you a new one.) He just crossed his arms behind his head and waited.
S"O," Omi purred or mused, hard to tell, his thoughts were all on the surface now, in Schuldig's ears and skin. Silky black boxers hugging against his ass, warm as they were now, aggravating feeling and not. When you "Saw me at the club" in that shirt, the freshman shirt, the one that everyone liked and Omi had known that without having to be told, strange that and thoughts of cheating and what Schuldig was, fear of commitment and that was ridiculous. "Is," punctuated because the word wasn't floating in Omi's thoughts, spoken in his voice, mouth that close to Schuldig's. Not kissing but they should have been. Could have had this conversation without their mouths that was for damn sure. This what you thought about?
He tilted his head. "My thoughts had a more significant lack of clothes," he said back. (He didn't finish asking.) Well, not out loud. "Less fish too."
The laugh, that close to his lips, was a tickle of breath that was just as much a tease as it wasn't. Shift of the touch against his chest, changing its mind about holding him down, a passing thought about running themes, fish and fishnet and how Schuldig never did like his clothes. He liked some of them, under the right circumstances. A time and a place for everything, that was what he'd been taught and now was neither. Omi wanted to touch his hair still, but he was holding back, silly and stupid thing to do, brushing their mouths together just to get him interested. (Wasted time.) No, the hands brushing his shirt open wider, tracing down his ribs, the feathery lightness of the touch as it got lower, closer to where it was ticklish and Schuldig leaned up to kiss him. Caught his mouth and all those intentions toward teasing wavered, quivered like delicate little threads.
Easy to break, really.
One night for every twelve; Schuldig sat up. Omi settled back in his lap, kissing slow and (raw, that was how close they were, that was what she called it) needy. Or not, need was pricklier, burrs under your skin, this was deeper than that. He found Omi's wrists, pulled his hands up, to his shoulders and let them find the rest of the way by themselves. To his hair, raked through it. A mess, didn't matter, Omi would work through that, untangle it and tangle it again. Smiling into the kiss with a noise rattling against his mouth. Flex and shift of his back, all that muscle in his shoulders, down, slim waist and Schuldig pushed him over. Kiss at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, back to his ear, traced the edge of it, lower, his throat, nipping there to leave pink marks that would fade. Couldn't show, that was the rule, and lower.
Taking time, defining the boundary of Omi and him, mapping out the places where they were different--sucking at the skin just under the dip in Omi's collar bone, fingers down on his ribs, lower, at his waist, found a scar and traced it with his tongue--little noise, hips raising up to push against his belly and that was unintentional. Smiled against the warm skin under his mouth, moving back up. Left nipple, not the right, no explanation for that. Omi didn't wonder at it too hard, didn't care, just combed through his hair, pressed against the back of his head when he got it right and--Schuldig found the button of his pants. Clingy, black, attractive.
In the way.
Thumbed them open with years of practice, elbow to the bed, licking his way down, kisses like loud little smacks, chuckling and feeling Omi shifting, one of his hands moving down to his shoulder (starting to wonder really, where he was headed) and Schuldig curled his fingers around the waist band of the pants, the stupid elastic of the black silky boxers. Tugged them down, bit by bit as he sucked at soft belly skin. Muscle flexing up as Omi arched up to let him get the pants down.
"I thought about this," he mumbled into that thin line of blond hair that ran down...kissed his way down. Fingers tightening his hair as his hand slipped back up the inside of Omi's thigh, walking across the damp skin and curling around him, stroke of his palm and one last kiss, licked his lips before--
Tremble, he loved the trembling, the tug at his hair wasn't as lovely but the moan was good, the first one that rattled around loosely in Omi's chest before it worked its way up, quivering in his throat and finally breaking free of his mouth in a breathless staggered gasp. Oh fuck all in one messy syllable in his head, echoing out from Omi's and he would have smiled if not for his full mouth, looked up through the haze of his bangs and didn't see much. Chin, throat muscles working, thumb against his forehead and fingers curling around to guide the bob of his head. Yes, discernible through the chaos of Omi's thoughts, that was always easy like he was agreeing to good things, answering unspoken questions about did he want it to continue--people did that. It almost always annoyed him. Fu-- said that one once. More. More was good. Gasp somewhere above him, shaking hand pushing his hair out of the way that thumb on his forehead rubbing in the sweat and he moved his own hand, down, pushing Omi's thigh open farther, following the crease there between leg and body. Distracting--who could handle more distractions now? Omi pushing up against his mouth and biting his lip, trying not to, grabbing at the sheets and wondering where the damn pillows were--no, didn't matter, thinking about fuck again and nothing, white space when the mind broke down like an animal.
(He wants to fuck your face.) So did a lot of people.
He shifted again, pushing Omi down by the hip and the complaint, a little moan that made the air feel heavy, hot, caressed across his skin like silky boxers. Restless, writhing, squirming and he moved his hand again, Omi pushed up again, back arching and scratching for purchase with his fingernails and his mind, finding nothing but that was fine, just fine it was bright and hot and--
Lacking a certain gourmet appeal but there was nothing you could do about that. (Didn't she tell you once dick was the worst taste in the world?) He crawled back up, laid down next to Omi and watched him breathe, eyes closed and limp. "God," in a mumble. (Like you need help with that complex.)
Schuldig wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and brushed his hair back over his shoulders so it fell behind him. Rested his head on his palm and waited. Smiled over the ideas floating around in Omi's head about what came next, because he could return the favor or something or something else, but what did Schuldig want, really. There really were a lot of fish in this room, and a black light, that might be worth looking at later when--wait, needed to get his thoughts into some manner of order and then Omi opened his eyes and let his fingers fall away form his face, rolled his head over to look at him.
(Go ahead and let him suck you off, he wants to.) Yes, well, that would be nice. And who was he to really deny Omi what it was he wanted anyway? All the same, when Omi rolled onto his side toward him, Schuldig kissed him. Distracted him away from those silly thoughts about blow jobs and ran his hand in one long stroke down the sweat-slicked length of his ribs. One night for every twelve; they could get picky about what they got to do on those nights if they couldn't get choosy about where. So Omi wriggled the rest of the way out of his pants, kicked them off the edge of the bed and put a hand against his chest to push him onto his back.
Schuldig reached down into his pocket before his pants got displaced for him, two fingers closing around the little foil packets of lube that were all very single use only and pulled them up as Omi got his button and zipper undone, pushed down and tugged at the knees of the pants until they slipped off his legs. Tossed them after his own and came back, grinning. Schuldig reached down to grab his socks and pull them off (look at him admiring your flexibility like that; one day he just might get ideas). So long as it wasn't tonight. Hand on the inside of his thigh, pushing his leg down when his sock was still hanging on his toes and he just wiggled it off as Omi crawled over his thigh to lay against his side, half on top of him.
A kiss, as sweet as a whispered word, a quiet kind of eagerness in the touch. A thumb that brushed across his throat and ran into the leather wrapped around there, pushing it up and down again, rolling it until he pushed the hand down—the way Omi's mind shifted along between the touch, the feeling of skin. Smooth skin, muscle (and wasn't his slight note of shock every time he finds muscle on you ever so slightly insulting), the raised little bump of a nipple and Omi's mouth curved into a smile as his fingertips slid lower, just a few more centimeters and he'd hit the ticklish places… Schuldig kissed him harder, brought his arm up, Omi's head cradled there in the crook of his elbow and the hand made a sloppy U-turn back upward.
Maybe, the eagerness was gone and thought was settling in, dissatisfaction and that most definitely wouldn't lead to him getting laid—not that it mattered, not right away, his body followed Omi's relaxing into the touch and the close, the calm that came in those lengths of time between. Squeeze of a hand around his shoulder, Omi's ear smashed against his arm—starting to get uncomfortable, if only because it was sweaty. Sweaty ears were unwelcome—fingers going down over the bone there, to his upper arm and finding the ridge of the scar. Pelagatti's scar. (Not everyone keeps track of where they get every little scar…) Not everyone had the sort of scars he did.
"You know," Omi said as his tongue swiped across his own lips, bright pink and almost red. Shiny, anyway. He pushed himself up to his elbow to look at what he'd found. "You really suck at video games." Because the scar had nothing to do with megalomaniacs that met grisly ends and everything to do with spare time spent playing on the Super Box, beating Schuldig at something, sex and laying against his chest, exchanging words that had meaning and touches that were meant to be nothing but—touches.
"Only because I didn't cheat," Schuldig said back. He put the arm that had been under Omi's head under his and rolled onto his back. Omi was going to have to crawl on top of him to keep looking at the scar.
It took a half second longer, Omi thinking over that statement and then moving, knee sliding across his belly and down into the bed on the other side, one hand on his chest and the other nowhere in particular. He was holding his own weight, not quite where he would be most appreciated but it was close and his mind was all distracted away from sex anyway. "Why didn't you?"
"Because," he said and stretched under him, arching a little to make Omi scoot back even a few centimeters, didn't really work other than one blond eyebrow cocking upward. The question was more important than anything else, of course. Hydra-puzzles and all that. "If I lost enough, I'd get laid." Humor, she had been known to say, was all in the delivery.
Omi laughed (aren't you cute), grinned and leaned forward on his elbows, brushing their bodies together in all the welcome places, even with his knees there against Schuldig's ribs and lips just barely touching his, still chuckling, eyes shimmering and half open—this was funny. Sure it was, from the side of the equation that already got off, he reached down, both hands wrapping around Omi's ass and squeezing, lifted his head up enough to make this tease a real kiss.
Acquiesce by way of playful pity (the only good kind surely) and Omi pressed down against him a little harder, stopped teasing because their mouths slid together right. (Addicts playing fools.) Playful, he was fine with playful, pressed his hands into flesh—skin and muscle, and somewhere under that bone. He knew it too well, the way it moved and felt and—when Omi was going to decide to make his point and stop but he had a good thirty seconds before that happened. Grabbed him harder and sat up, felt the arm go around his shoulders, the way Omi sitting up almost made him taller, pulled him down and forward, pushing up against him, his own back curved, kissing harder, hand up against the back of his neck.
Thirteen seconds. Why the hell did they have to talk? He kissed Omi's neck, felt his voice rumbling there, the little hum of pleasure, the curious fingers in his hair and on his back, thumb over the bump of his spine and his head tipped back. "You'd take a blow to your pride," and a little gasp in there somewhere.
Schuldig fumbled with the blanket, found that slick little packet of one-serving lube.
"Just to," and his head came forward again, hand sliding up to just behind Schuldig's ear, making their mouths meet up again, a kiss that wasn't, open mouths, breath, want and need and who the hell really had to talk now? Omi didn't know either, eyes sliding closed as his skin beaded up with sweat again. His hips were moving against him, his head imagining things that were better—what they had been, would be, wondering why Schuldig hadn't shoved him on his back yet and moaned the last words into his mouth caught between the original question and the next demand. "Fuck me?"
Yes to the question, to the command, to the lingering thought about shoving him backward. Yes to just about anything that ended with Omi's little breath when his shoulders hit the bed, the sly smile curving up the side of his mouth and half a thought about eagerness. Didn't matter, Schuldig ripped the stupid little packet as he got his knees back under him and squeezed it all into his fist, threw it, dropped his hand down to the bed and leaning over.
Kissed Omi because he missed that between the one in twelve. Felt the legs coming up, wrapping around his body, complaining about his arm being down, no matter what his hand was attending to (going cross eyed over here, how about you), who was eager now? Didn't matter, like the fish swimming over their head and the squeak of the badly used bed frame. Gasp when he pressed against Omi, kissed his throat, sucked on the skin there, the taste of sweat and sweet anticipation in his mind that was the finest old whiskey—it burned down his spine as he stayed there, teasing back one fraction of a second for every little thought Omi had about doing the same.
For one in twelve, for kisses that he'd missed, for Omi's little catches of breath, scratches on his shoulders, knees digging into his ribs and the shivering high of feeling that was right there, so close to begging, he pressed forward and damn near lost it right there. Omi's back arching, his mind scattering everywhere all at once like broken pieces of fine china and the heat of his body—
Seeking, blind, and finding shoulders, arms slipped up under Omi's body, felt the way he adjusted, rocked back and breathed in the smell of his skin, just to remember it later. Pushing forward again, inside (addict) and leaning up. (Good thing he's so damn short.) Kissing him, reaching out his fingers to feel the tips of his hair, soaked in sweat like they were and moving. Slow. (One in twelve, right, draw it out and make it last, remember it later when you're by yourself with nothing but cold sheets?) Someone was shivering and he didn't think it was him.
Tremble, might have been, lips brushing together in all the wrong ways, what did that matter? Omi's cheek was smooth, always was, touching his, under his lips, against his nose, and his eyes closed, one hand going over his head to find the edge of the bed because it felt close by. Schuldig kissed him again, harder than the last time—stop thinking. Stop thinking about that, the edge of the bed and the end and the exits of the room.
Dragged both his hands down, slow, even, firm strokes of his thumb to mark the way, to draw out gasps and little growls, little wants and needs, going down Omi's chest, his ribs and his belly, down, and down to his hips tugging him backward and pushing forward. Didn't like that—hand around his thigh, the other against the bed, leaning down to kiss him, all his stupid hair—swinging, swaying, in his mouth, in his eyes, in Omi's eyes.
Hands pushing it back, holding it back, shivering little moan, he answered. Too hot and too hard to breath (but you're not ready to let go yet). Panting, digging his hand down into the stupid turquoise bedspread that was just plain obscene to look at; Omi arched up under him again, head back and then to the side, flushed pink, shiny with sweat and wrapping both arms around his shoulders, bringing him back down… Too much skin, too damn much skin touching everywhere, overlapping, someone was trembling and he couldn't tell who.
(Those men in the club—) Had no fucking idea. Schuldig licked a streak of sweat off Omi's flushed neck, right there where it met shoulder, heard his whimper, saw his white teeth clenched around pink lips and moaned—(gonna lose it)—pressed his mouth against Omi's shoulder. (Gonna show.) Sucked on it, wanted to bite it so bad he could feel it tightening his fists, pushing his hips forward hard, sinking in deeper and the clawing pleasure quivering in Omi's head, in his body, and let go.
Grabbed Omi's face with his hand, (be careful now), watched him open his eyes, half open, looking at him, right there at the edge ready to give in and let it happen (be careful now) and Schuldig kissed him. Not rough, possessive, the hand on his face, wrapped around his jaw, demanding attention, the kiss that echoed what he'd said and what he hadn't:
Didn't share. Never did. Nobody ever touched what was his and Omi was (fucking hot) his.
Sinew, bone, muscle, skin, teeth, tongue, lips and mind—right there, he breathed out, ragged and heavy with a half spoken moan, could have been Omi's name or not, didn't know, shivered and held on. Lost the kiss but not the way his hand rested there against Omi's jaw, feeling the same tremble, the tilt of his face and the mind behind it blanking out with bliss.
They pulled the bed apart--it was a matter of comfort, really, no telling when that comforter had last been washed and they'd just added further insult to the poor piece of fabric--so it was just the two of them between sheets, dark blue to go with the room's theme. The pillows and mattress, now that Omi was in a position to appreciate them, were actually wonderfully soft and inviting, perfect for relaxing in the afterglow, and someone running this place had put some real thought into that. It was kind of nice.
Schuldig was lying on his side, close enough that his breath tickled cool against the curve between Omi's neck and shoulder, one arm draped across his waist--it was possessive, that arm, the curl of fingers around his hip, like that kiss there at the end.
Omi shifted a little, still on his back, turned just slightly towards Schuldig and hummed softly, thoughtful noise in his throat. Felt the way the cooling sweat stuck their skin together everywhere they were touching. Tangled legs, Omi's shoulder against his chest, and that arm. His eyes were closed, mouth parted softly almost like sleeping and without an expression his features softened, and in that state looked more his age than any other time. Still young, really.
He rolled, gradually, shift of hips and felt Schuldig's arm snake under and around his shoulders, the one at his waist wrapping around to his back. Omi let his own hands get caught between them, palms flat against skin and leaned in, small kisses at the corners of Schuldig's mouth. Just until his eyes slitted open like he knew Omi was going to say something and wasn't going to bother asking.
"This isn't working," Omi murmured.
"Give it a minute." Schuldig replied in a flat tone, the one he used when he thought Omi was being a moron but it wasn't always all that serious. "It'll work again."
"You're so funny," Omi replied, mimicking the flatness and then let it go soft, moved into another kiss, slower--it hadn't always been like this, cuddling afterwards and kissing and talking, even. They talked enough back then but not like this. "You know what I mean."
He wasn't going to say it out loud. Any of that.
Small movements--the arm under his neck, Schuldig's hand settled on the top of his head, stroked down his hair to his chin, down his neck and back to his shoulder. Felt the tug there and the kiss back, deep and lingering. "I'll call you next time."
Omi shook his head instantly and drew back. "You can't call me, they monitor my phone."
Eyeroll followed by a superior huff--and that meant he really did think Omi was being a moron and he lifted up, off the pillow and onto his elbow, fingers clawing back his hair before settling against his hand. "I didn't mean on the phone. One of the many practical applications of telepathy is communication."
And there were occasions where Schuldig was right.
To be fair, Omi was accustomed to the fact that Schuldig could hear what he was thinking--utilized it on occasion, but he didn't remember anytime previous where Schuldig had displayed the ability to speak directly into his mind. Although if he thought about it there were times during sex when he was pretty sure he heard something like "move your leg" or "stop that" or just a general sound of appreciation or approval while Schuldig's mouth was clearly otherwise occupied. He blamed it on the activity in question muddling his senses.
He wondered, though, how far that connection went. Omi licked his lips, watched Schuldig hovering over him and following all his little thoughts, watched that grin spread across his face in time with the movement. "Okay."
Schuldig's hand on his shoulder, still grinning and pushing him back onto his back, sliding over and resettling above him, body warm and close and not quite pressing him down. Skin still tacky with sweat. "This," he said, is what it feels like.
And really, it shouldn't have felt much like anything, just a voice, not as much of a German accent as Schuldig usually had but still his and the only real difference was that Schuldig's mouth didn't move along with it. The sound was present like an auditory hallucination, only Omi knew it was real and not imagined and that if anyone else had been present they wouldn't have heard it. That idea made him shiver a little, the suggestion of privacy and intimacy and the reason that the voice felt like anything at all was that his mind immediately made associations with it. Like a kind of defense, against something his brain wasn't equipped to handle and tried instead to turn it into a memory, attaching all these thoughts and feelings and images to it and it did feel. Felt like an old, aching hurt and then like sweat and skin and sex and hair under his fingers and (love) and spending a day wearing nothing but his shirt.
It was kind of nice, actually.
He mentally calculated the hour before reaching up and pulling Schuldig down into a kiss, caught a glance at the digital clock on the bedside table before bending his knees up around Schuldig's hips and pressing up, soft murmur against his lips--still time for another. Not enough time for the whole night but he could stay, for now--
"That's not usually how people react." Schuldig's voice was amused, light against his lips and there was a laugh somewhere in there that probably would never come out.
"Other people don't have the benefit of knowing you the way I do."
Slow movement--hands, mostly, slow dragging touches and just a small shift and press, just enough to entice and Schuldig's mouth moved down his neck. Most of the sound he made was breath, head tilting back and fingers pressing patterns in Schuldig's skin and his thoughts wandered in random directions, in time with the lazy movements, and when they stumbled across something he laughed softly, felt Schuldig's hair against his mouth.
"That's how you knew." Random thing to say with no connotation but Omi was thinking of their conversation before, about video games and Schuldig not cheating because he knew--it was a silly observation, there was no reason to say it, but he was just drifting along with the feeling and the idea of sex and the words just drifted out in tandem.
"No, Crawford told me." Schuldig said this with a flat disinterest between planting kisses along his collarbone, one hand petting up and down over his hip, thumb tracing shivering circles on the sensitive skin closer to his navel. "You know, he punched me the first time," he continued, contemplation in the tone like he was mentally filing away the information for future use, pressing his mouth into the hollow of Omi's throat for a moment before continuing. "Of course, we hadn't had sex yet, then..."
Omi had stopped moving at all seconds after the first phrase was out of Schuldig's mouth and the damn German knew it, kept going like he didn't notice but Omi knew he did and knew he was enjoying the moment, but it was only after that last that Omi finally pushed him away and sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed and reaching for his pants.
Because first of all, the precog was supposed to have visions about important things. Things like what his enemies' plans were and whether or not the world was going to end. He had absolutely no fucking business having visions about Schuldig and him and whether or not they were going to spend the evening fucking.
And second of all, Schuldig had no business bringing up the fact that he'd slept with the goddamn precog--albeit years ago or who knew--and Schuldig was chuckling, sitting there in the middle of the bed. His boxers and pants were still tangled up together, and he pulled them on at the same time.
Schuldig was beating him down for a reason. He'd gotten too wrapped up with himself and the idea of them and now he was paying for it. Didn't mean he had to like it; sure as hell didn't mean he had to stay naked for it.
"Oh, Crawford hates seeing you in his head every bit as much as it pisses you off to know that he does." Schuldig pushed himself further upright, crossing his legs under the sheets and pushing hair back from his face; his grin was feral, predatory in its amusement and he knew that Omi didn't give a fuck how Crawford felt. Knew that Omi was outraged more than anything by the fact that Schuldig just kept talking about him and it was funny, to him. He was leaning back on his hands now, something arrogant and inviting in the way he slouched.
"Three months, three weeks and five days."
Omi scowled and wondered if he really wanted to know, finishing up the button of his pants without looking at it. Mentally counting backwards. "Since what?"
Schuldig just waited, patient and arrogant and totally aware of just how gorgeous and infuriating he was sitting there like that.
Three months, three weeks and five days in the past he was at the Koneko; just before the temple collapsed in the sea, but what that had to do with--oh.
He didn't need the smirk curling the corners of Schuldig's mouth to know he was right; it settled in the pit of his stomach and ached there. It hurt. It closed around his throat until he had to swallow first to speak and he thought about strangling. No--thought about strangling the bastard American. Thought about strangling the arrogant prick on the bed for a minute before changing his mind and resettling on Crawford. Oversized bastard, would take both hands to wrap around his neck but Omi knew how to do it, where to press to stop the bloodflow and crush the windpipe. Could even use that trick, just a jerk in the right place and the neck would snap. It was a matter of know-how.
Omi swallowed--to get that lump out of the way and to remind himself that he didn't kill people in cold blood. The thoughts made the pain in his gut feel slightly better, though.
He just said, "You fucked him," because the fact was pretty obvious at this point. An image kept trying to form in his mind and Omi kept stamping it out before he got a good look.
Schuldig stopped grinning. He leaned forward again, pulling his legs back and rearranging them under the sheets, elbows on his knees and he regarded Omi seriously. Hair loose around his face. "Yes, but nothing at all like that."
He could have said something like, 'You could have just not told me,' seems how Schuldig was displaying something like care for the fact that he'd hurt Omi's feelings, but that would be ridiculous. That would be wishing for ignorance and Omi wouldn't have meant it and Schuldig wouldn't have been impressed. He supposed he could appreciate the honesty despite the lousy way Schuldig chose to deliver it but the pain in his chest denied that idea instantly. Maybe later, when it didn't hurt so much.
He could have thrown a fit, he supposed, and demanded to know what the hell it was like, then, but that was too much like being an angry lover (and he'd been trying so hard not to think of that word) so after all that internal debate all he said was, "Oh," arms lowering to his side, attention jerking away to the myriad of neon fish on the walls. Thought about taking a shower because that thought was pretty safe in comparison to all the others.
Schuldig's voice drew him back, though, even if it was only a skeptical gaze while he talked. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you—this is actually hilarious." He waved his hands in front of him in a kind of placation when Omi scowled instantly at the notion that any of this was hilarious, like a silent 'no, really, it is' in a plea to continue. "See he wants to kill you, and not in any of those neat and tidy little ways you were thinking about killing him, either."
Omi wet his lips, shrugged his shoulders and thought about the temple and the pillar and Nagi Naoe slowly crushing him against it. Thought about Crawford and his glasses and his sinister smile and what methods he preferred over strangling.
"I wouldn't let him," Schuldig added, clearly following the train of thought.
Omi wasn't really impressed by any of this. "Neither would I."
"You want to kill him," Schuldig continued before Omi decided he didn't want to listen anymore. "He thinks that I love you, and you're upset because he tried to fuck me out of missing you."
Omi's mind caught hold of that sentence and played it over a few times. It stuttered around the thinks that I love you a few times before replaying in full, and he swallowed again. Wondered what about this was supposed to be so funny, anyway. "Did it work?"
"Jealousy tickles when you're the prize being fought over." Schuldig said it knowing that it didn't matter, knowing that Omi didn't care and his voice dismissed it even as he said the words. He slid to the edge of the bed, both feet on the floor and fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, sheet still tangled at his waist. "Nagi tried to kill you," he said, and the tone was probably so different in contrast to the dismissive one he'd just used. Expression serious again and it was almost frightening, the level of sincerity suddenly present. "I fucked his head up so bad he still speaks backwards. I'm thinking about fixing it. Soon, maybe."
He licked his lips again, considering this but Schuldig was still playing a game--the one where he avoided answering a question directly. He should have known better--it was the first one Omi ever figured out. "Did it work?"
The way Schuldig's eyebrows drew together was kind of cute--because he did know better but that wasn't stopping anything. "You were supposed to infer the answer from what I just told you."
Omi shook his head--because he could infer all he wanted but as long as Schuldig didn't say it he could pretend it didn't exist, could turn it into an assumption if he wanted to. Omi watched him and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms still limp at his sides. Fingers flexing. Said, "I don't want to infer anything," at the same time that Schuldig said, "I didn't want Crawford to be right," and he wasn't sure if Schuldig said it out loud or in his head because it all jumbled up together and Omi had to stop. Back up, replay and untangle the two phrases from each other.
And when he did, and he had the statement laid out neatly and considered it until the meaning caught, the pain in his stomach and the lump in his throat shivered and tightened.
He asked, "Did it work?"
No. Schuldig's head shook, side to side, punctuating the voice in his mind.
And the voice was nice and it shivered and reinstated the intimacy he'd felt earlier, just for a moment, but Omi's hands curled up into fists, clenching and relaxing like a breath. He'd tried so hard to not think about it. Tried, but it was all tumbling around in the front of his mind now and he shook his head to try and get it under control. Rubbed his forehead so he couldn't see Schuldig sitting there all serious and sincere and un-Schuldig-like. Choked out, "M--Me too," in a kind of stuttered jumble and bent down to grab his shirt--he would take a shower. Not to run away or dwell in hurt and anger but because that was safe. Five minutes under the water and his thoughts would be all neatly back in order.
Schuldig's hand caught his when he straightened and he almost jerked away from how raw it felt--dropped the shirt, at least, froze where he stood and it was almost painful--like his skin had been split open and peeled away and every touch and movement hurt. Schuldig stood up, moved around to face him and his hands moved to his shoulders and the word stay murmured in his mind. Like the touch on his wrist months and months ago with the same request. Schuldig's hand slid into his hair, brushed it back until Omi's eyes slipped closed and he leaned into it, leaned forward until his forehead was against Schuldig's collarbone. Felt his own shoulders shaking under Schuldig's hands.
What was so different about having admitted it? (But you said it yourself, as long as no one says anything you can always pretend it didn't exist.)
It was later--after he stopped shaking and the sheets were pulled back and he was arching off the bed, feel of Schuldig inside him in spikes of pleasure and--fuck. It was then that he pressed his lips against Schuldig's ear and mouthed the words there just to see how they felt. Just once. And Schuldig stuttered something in German and something about 'god' and 'fuck' and kissed him until he thought he would drown in it.
Then--it was probably okay.
Omi snuck back into the RV at about four in the morning and slept until noon, at which point Ken kicked him out of bed because there were mission specs to work on and flowers to sell and lunch to eat. He was in the middle of two of these three things--Aya had been handling the flowers, the girls in this part of town were nuts for the dour angry guy type--when Youji wandered in, daily newspaper folded in one hand and unlit cigarette in the other.
"You were clubbing last night, right?" Youji was using his 'big brother' voice, one that cared not for who had seniority and who didn't; he was older, more responsible, and he was on the verge of laying out boundaries for the good of those less so. "In Shinjuku?"
He nodded a little, pushed the last of the onigiri into his mouth and accepted the paper when Youji handed it to him. It was folded open to an article, headline declaring 'FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN NIGHTCLUB DEATH'. Beneath it the article outlined how a young man had been found dead, drowned in a toilet, and investigators later discovered a large amount of the drug rohypnol in his system.
"Better watch yourself," Youji cautioned, lifting the cigarette to his lips and fishing in his pocket for a lighter. "Not all the dark beasts are in Manx's file folders."
Omi stared at the article and the blurb about the victim, graphic design major from Hosei University, and could probably have told Youji that there was only one dark beast in the club that night. Omi had been right in his arms the whole time.