For War is Kind ~ Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

Night had come, and he was here again.  Standing in the hall just outside this familiar room.  And though he knew better, Aoshi swore he could feel Sagara’s eyes on him, even through the drawn panel.  Willing him forward, compelling him…

 

He opened his mouth to speak, and then he closed it again.  All day he had spent avoiding the inn’s other residents as best he could; he could still feel Sagara’s lips against his, as though they had left behind a mark as indelible as a scar.  Anyone who looked closely enough, surely they would be able to see it, could see what had changed about him.

 

It was hard to believe that something so simple could have affected him at all, but Sagara had put something inside him – desire, perhaps, or simple curiosity – and it clawed at him.  If he left it alone too long, he wouldn’t even recognize his own face anymore.  That was why he was here, before this door; he just had to be sure.

 

Aoshi cleared his throat quietly, and then he called out, “Sagara?  Are you in?  It’s… Aoshi Shinomori.”

 

When Sagara spoke, there was a subtle trembling around the edges of his voice.  “Yes. I-I’m here.”  There was a short rustling of movement from within.  “Come in.”

 

He slipped inside, making sure the panel was drawn tightly behind him before he lifted his gaze to Sagara’s.  It was strange to see Sagara standing there, his yukata rumpled at the collar where he had hastily clenched it closed… his smile casual as always, while his eyes betrayed so much.  Aoshi stepped forward hesitantly.  There were words already in his throat, something he’d wanted to say all day.  “I’m not afraid of you.”

 

Sagara’s gaze sharpened.  “I didn’t think you would be.  I’m… glad, though.”

 

“I just don’t like… being surprised,” Aoshi continued, though by now he was wondering if there was really a need.  Sagara seemed to understand him, know every move before he made it.  He lowered his eyes.  “I’m not used to being touched like that.”

 

“Then… I’m sorry, Aoshi.”  There was more sincerity in Sagara’s voice than Aoshi had expected, and he lifted his head suddenly, his fingers twitching at his sides.

 

“I didn’t ask you to apologize.”

 

Sagara turned away, but not quickly enough that Aoshi didn’t catch the ghost of a smile that flickered across his lips.  “In that case, I’m sorry for apologizing.”  He retreated a few steps, as though drawing out of Aoshi’s reach.  “I just can’t win with you, can I?”

 

Aoshi watched him go, and then, eyes narrowing, he followed.  “Don’t… worry about it.”

 

Sagara glanced over his shoulder, and seemed to stand a little taller when he realized Aoshi had followed him this far.  “I have to worry,” he murmured, turning fully and stepping forward, just once.  “Because, Aoshi, you are…”

 

“I’m what?”  Inwardly, Aoshi flinched.  He’d sounded far to eager in asking that, but he was still moving forward, until he stood just before Sagara.  “I still don’t understand.  What you want…”

 

Sagara laughed softly, and the younger man’s stomach turned over at the sound of it.  “You are…”  he tried again, “…so close to me I can’t even breathe.”  And he reached out, just for an instant, to brush a stray lock of hair from Aoshi’s temple.

 

Usually Aoshi would have laughed at such a declaration.  Until Sagara’s fingertips feathered over his skin, giving him a taste of that experience.  He shook his head slowly.  “Hold still a moment.”  Leveling his gaze at Sagara’s as though that alone would be enough to pin him in place, Aoshi slid forward another step, reaching out to rest one hand against Sagara’s chest.

 

The man laughed, a faint, pleasantly surprised sound, almost lost to the sharp breath he drew when Aoshi touched him.  “I’m glad to see we’re friends again,” he murmured.

 

“Friends…” Aoshi echoed, lifting the other hand to Sagara’s chest as well, gliding his palms over the sloping indentation of ribs, slipping his fingertips briefly beneath the folds of Sagara’s yukata.  His skin felt hot to the touch, and Aoshi bit his lip.  “But that’s not quite right either, is it?”  He shook his head.  “Just… let me touch you, for a while.”

 

Sagara smiled warmly.  “I think I can live with that arrangement.”  But he reached up, brushing his fingertips over the back of Aoshi’s wrist to catch his attention.  “There’s no reason to be afraid.  I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

 

“Hurt me?”  Aoshi snorted softly, his fingers curling, almost into fists, against Sagara’s chest.  “I don’t even think you could.”

 

With a quiet sigh, Sagara reached up, curling the fingers of one hand around the back of Aoshi’s neck, pressing the heel of his hand against the tense muscles at his shoulder.  “But you’re still nervous…”

 

“I’m not…”  But Aoshi knew he wouldn’t be able to convince Sagara of as much.  He could tell how clearly his thoughts must be painted on his face right now; he felt so fragile, as he lowered his eyes, leaning in a little more until his forearms lay flat against Sagara’s chest.  “I’m not.”

 

“All right, then.”  Sagara smiled faintly as he slipped his other hand to the small of Aoshi’s back.  He wasn’t sure if he believed the younger man, but it was very quickly becoming insignificant.  Because even now he could hardly believe this was happening, and he would have called it good fortune… but he knew better than that.    His fingers tensed against Aoshi’s back, and he tilted his head down to feather a kiss over his lips, and for a moment he couldn’t believe he’d initiated something so slow and light, so far removed from the desperation that clawed at him. 

 

Gradually, Aoshi’s hands drifted down to rest on Sagara’s hips, and he sighed.  “I’m not a child.  So don’t think you can just… just…”  But another kiss cut his protests short, leaving him feeling distant and shaky.

 

When Sagara leaned back once more, he was smiling, recklessly, as though savoring some great triumph.  “I know what you are, Aoshi,” he murmured.  “And I know what you’re not.”

 

With a quiet sigh, Aoshi turned away.  “I’m their leader. I shouldn’t be so weak.”

 

Sagara frowned slightly, and shifted closer, near enough to reach out and press his hand to the hollow between Aoshi’s shoulder blades.  “Is that,” he asked hesitantly, “what you think this is about?”

 

It should have been so obvious.  The broken intake of his breath, the slight shiver that went through him at even that casual touch; all of it, drawing him in, making him doubt even his ability to not need this man so much it hurt.  And he spun around abruptly, catching Sagara by the wrist as he tried to recoil.  Pulling him forward a step so they met in a hard kiss.

 

A shiver passed through the other man’s body; the hands that cinched around Aoshi’s hips were trembling slightly.  It was strange, to think that maybe he really did have some kind of power over this man.  They had moved before he even had an opportunity to think that he shouldn’t be letting this happen, shouldn’t have let Sagara’s hands grow tight around his waist, draw him down to the soft tatami mats. He braced his forearm against the floor before he could be forced onto his back, but there was still breath against his mouth, black hair not like his own in his eyes, and the urgent heat of skin that he could feel even through two layers of clothing.

 

And then Sagara stopped.  He pulled back a little, tilting his head to the side as he searched Aoshi’s expression, sighing breathlessly.  “Sorry,” he muttered, and leaned forward – almost swaying – so their foreheads touched.  It felt like a ridiculously intimate gesture, something he shouldn’t have even attempted with someone he wasn’t sleeping with.

 

“I’m just not used to this.”  Aoshi’s fingers curled against the floor.  “And… if you keep apologizing for everything, I’m going to leave.” 

 

Sagara laughed softly, and it felt like a light breeze against his cheek and the curve of his ear.  “That’s too bad,” he murmured. “That you’re not used to this, that is.”  And he might have sounded a little disappointed, or maybe even a little surprised.

 

“But…”  Aoshi sighed quietly, and reached up to slide the fingertips of one hand over Sagara’s hip, down to the outside of his thigh; he swallowed hard against the knot in the back of his throat.  “You’re not one of them, so this is okay.”

 

“I think it’s okay.”  Sagara feathered a quick, chaste kiss over his temple, and then he pulled away, stretching out on the mats at Aoshi’s side with an arm crooked behind his head.

 

"Stop patronizing me."

 

“Hmm?”  Sagara tilted his head toward him.  “I’m not.”

 

“You are, though,” Aoshi muttered.  “You do it without even knowing.”

 

Sagara sighed quietly, turning at last completely onto his side and looking up into Aoshi’s eyes.  “What do you want from me?”

 

“Back to what I want…” Aoshi said ironically, lowering his hand to slide over the seam between two of the mats.

 

“Well, doesn’t it matter to you?”  Gently, Sagara touched his wrist, stilling his hand.  “Are you going to spend the rest of your life living the way other people want you to?”

 

Aoshi lifted his head; for a moment there was something different – more vibrant - in Sagara’s gaze.  And he turned away from it.  “Don’t lecture me; you don’t understand anything.  We’re dying, Sagara.”

 

There was a flutter of movement at his side, and, before he could turn, arms around shoulders, drawing him sharply back to rest against Sagara’s chest.  “Don’t… don’t say that.”  He could feel the vibrations of the man’s words behind his ribs, argent and rough around the edges.  “No one is going to die anymore.”

 

Aoshi’s breath caught, and he cleared his throat softly before speaking again.  “I didn’t mean that.  It’s just… my men, our kind.  There’s not much left for us anymore.  They keep telling me, ‘You’re young.  Don’t wither away for our sakes.’ But…”  He lifted a hand to rest over Sagara’s.  “I have to protect them.”

 

“Aoshi…” The name spilled in whisper from Sagara’s lips.  “I… understand.  I was a leader too, you know.”  He closed his eyes, turning his cheek against Aoshi’s hair.  “I was…”

 

"I know.  Which is why I'm telling you."  He leaned back slightly, so that Sagara's breath fell across his jaw.  He felt as if he was trembling - one of them was, at least - and he should have been ashamed.  "I...didn't ever think myself young, until they told me so." 

 

"But you are young," Sagara reminded him with a bit of a smile.  "And… that's not so bad, is it?" 

 

"No, it isn't," Aoshi said softly.  "Because it shouldn't matter.  I'm stronger than them.  That's why I lead them...."  But it did matter.  He was young, separate from them.  And he hated that more than anything.

 

Sagara reached down, taking one of Aoshi’s hands in his own, trailing his thumb slowly over the backs of his knuckles.  “You are strong, but don’t you think… there are times when it’s better to be weak?”

 

“Are you mocking me?”  Aoshi muttered.  For the first time, he considered pulling away.  He could throw off Sagara’s arms; he could walk away, just like the last time, and it wouldn’t be that he was running, that he was afraid.  “I don’t ever want to be weak.”  And still, he wasn’t moving.

 

“No, of course not.”  Sagara was quiet for a long moment, his fingers shifting nervously as though he was searching for something he almost remembered.  “Let’s…”  He leaned closer, pressing his lips softly to the side of Aoshi’s throat.  “Let’s not talk anymore.”

 

Aoshi swallowed hard; he hadn’t been expecting that.  Something both hot and chilling crawled down his spine with the touch, but this time he didn't try to pull away.  He was stronger than that, after all.  Or was this a different matter?  "Do you... want me to be weak?" he asked quietly, stretching his back so that his shoulder blades rubbed faintly against Sagara's chest.

 

The man laughed against his hair.  “Only if you need to be.”

 

“What I need…”  Aoshi echoed quietly.  At least that was a little better than what he wanted…  He pressed his palms to the backs of Sagara’s hands, tugging his arms subtly tighter.  Sagara's fingers were long and delicate - hands fresh to a sword.  Perhaps not innocent, but not stained, either.  He liked being touched by hands like that, without judgment, and Aoshi tilted his head back, exposing his throat for another kiss.  Just… curious.

 

And this time he wasn’t surprised to feel lips skating over the underside of his jaw, gently at first, and then more deliberate.  “I’d tell you what you’ve done for me, but… it wouldn’t matter to you, would it?”

 

"I'm not sure.  I don't even know what it means to me…"  Or maybe it meant too many things to him.  "But you don't have to say it."  He leaned back, shifting his shoulder blades against Sagara’s chest.

 

"But I want to say it." Sagara grinned.  "Because… you're beautiful, Aoshi."  He buried a blush in another kiss against the point of the younger man’s jaw.  "And mysterious.  And something else.  Something… I don't know yet."

 

"I'm… beautiful?"  Despite all his earlier words, Aoshi suddenly felt very small, wrapped in these arms.  It was such a ridiculous compliment to be giving a man, but he was flattered by it.  “Sagara.”  His hand reached out, alighting on the man’s thigh.  Sagara seemed to tremble a little at the touch, and that made him more confident than it should have.  “What I need…” he murmured.

 

And, somehow, Sagara seemed to understand.  Aoshi wasn’t certain if he was grateful for that or not, but suddenly he was being pushed back again.  And this time he didn’t resist.  Sagara shifted above him, knelt with one knee in either side of his hips, and he leaned in, tangling the fingers of one hand in short black hair to hold him still for a kiss.

 

It didn’t quite seem real - the heat, the dim light of the room, the slight give of tatami beneath his body.  None of this was how he had imagined it, but he didn’t fight it even though his entire body felt serrated and tense, like it did before a battle.  And he moved, slipping his hands beneath the folds of Sagara’s yukata, pushing it off his shoulders.  As Sagara struggled to free his wrists from the tangled material, Aoshi pressed his palms to his chest, allowing himself a moment, just to feel him.

 

Beneath his right hand, the urgent pulse of Sagara’s heart, beneath his left the rise and fall of his breathing.  He curled his fingers around the man’s ribs, the ghosts of what had been lithe, trained muscle.  His injuries hadn’t wasted him, not completely – there was still strength somewhere beneath Sagara’s pale skin, though it hid, like a city sunken beneath treacherous ground – but he was weaker than he should have been.  Aoshi frowned slightly.  He didn’t like that; he had never liked fighting when his enemy wasn’t at its strongest, and though this wasn’t battle and he knew this wasn’t battle, what it was doing to his body made him think that it wasn’t so different.

 

At last, Sagara managed to free himself from his yukata, but when he turned back to Aoshi for another kiss, a frown snaked over his lips.  “What’s wrong?  If you don’t want to…”

 

Aoshi snorted softly.  “After all this, you’re saying things like that now?  I…”  His fingers curled again.  “If you want me so badly, then come and take me.”

 

For a moment his frown deepened, but then something sparked behind Sagara’s eyes and he was smirking again.  “I will.”  He kissed him again, harder and with more purpose, as though he sought to draw something out of him this time.  His hands pawed over the front of Aoshi’s civilian clothes; at first his touches seemed harmlessly clumsy and careless, but then a breath of cold air skated over his bare throat, drifting lower to dance and curl across his chest, and Aoshi realized how precisely his yukata had been peeled away.

 

So, Sagara was experienced.  He wasn’t sure if that made him nervous, or thrilled him.  Perhaps a little of both, though he hadn’t thought until now that was possible.  Sagara was experienced.  Aoshi himself had never done this before.  It seemed like it should be a simple equation; the conclusion he was supposed to draw from this should have been an easy one, but he just couldn’t.  Every time his mind stumbled toward reason, the press of Sagara’s lips, the burning caress of fingertips over newly exposed skin pulled him abruptly back.

 

When Sagara had opened his yukata to the waist and it lay spread out around him like budding wings, he pulled away. Not far, but enough that Aoshi was left gasping in the absence of shared breath.  “Sagara…” he panted.

 

“Shh.”  Sagara raked his fingernails slowly down Aoshi’s chest, from collarbones to waist, raising twin chills over his flesh.  Talented, experienced hands loosened his obi in less time then he could have done it himself, casting it aside in a whisper of fabric.  He must have looked a little startled, because Sagara cast him a quick wink, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.  “Stay put.”

 

He glided down Aoshi’s body, slowly, leaving a line of intermittent kisses over his throat and chest.  He hesitated long enough to swirl his tongue around a nipple, and then pulled away again, leaving the cool air to swirl over the flesh he had just dampened.  When Aoshi’s shivered, he only grinned secretively, and muttered again, “Shh.”

 

As he reached the hollow between sharp hipbones, Sagara slowed, pressing his lips a few times to the smooth contour of skin beneath his navel.  And in spite of his intentions not to appear weak before this man, Aoshi writhed, gritting his teeth as his spine twisted, trying to guide Sagara down, just a little more, to ease the tightness growing between his thighs. 

 

He wanted this man; Aoshi was almost shocked to realize it.  That it was someone like Sagara, with his warm eyes and clever hands and desperate affections who could almost make him beg, almost make him plead.    He reached down – his hands barely trembling now – and curled his fingers in Sagara’s raven hair, feeling his thighs part a little more in anticipation.

 

And he thought he heard the man laugh, very softly, but very sincere as he pressed his cheek to the inside of Aoshi’s thigh.  The younger man watched him closely, unable to look away, cataloguing every subtle shift behind Sagara’s eyes, the snake-like flick of his tongue over full lips.

 

Sagara slid the tip of his index finger idly along the underside of his length, tracing it from root to tip.  Aoshi shuddered, a soft, breathless moan slipping from his throat.  It was impossible… how could such a casual touch be so erotic?  Leave him feeling so cold when it was withdrawn?

 

Their gazes met over the rise of Aoshi’s body, Sagara’s mouth quirking into a grin. 

 

It was so sudden.  Until that moment, there had still been a part of him that hadn’t really believed Sagara would move, but then there were hands on him, and lips, hot and wet and vindicating, and he didn’t know what to believe anymore, only that everything he had wanted to say was suddenly and violently insignificant.

 

When it was finished, Aoshi lay still for a long time, trying to draw a full breath, a coherent thought.  He had nearly succeeded when Sagara crawled back up his body, pressing a saline kiss to his lips, sweeping away in an instant even the desire to regather his scattering pride.

 

“Sagara…”  He gave up explaining himself before he began - it was too much effort.  He only turned his face up into that warm spill of breath.  He still felt warm, here, safe, beneath that calm, inquisitive gaze.  "This had better not be what you meant about feeling weak," he murmured.

     

“Why?  Do you?” Sagara whispered, so softly he couldn’t be sure if it had been intended to be serious or not.

 

Aoshi closed his eyes again.  “I’m exhausted,” he admitted.  “But that’s not the same thing.”

 

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”  Sagara kissed him, quick and sharp, turning his head to bury his nose in locks of dark hair, breathing a deep sigh against Aoshi's cheek.  “Let’s get some sleep, all right?  You can… stay tonight, if you like.”

 

Aoshi swallowed hard; it was becoming difficult to ignore the subtle signals from Sagara’s body.  His breath was ragged, his heartbeat a little elevated… His need palpable in the air, almost something Aoshi could taste.  He nodded faintly, and Sagara rose from his side.  The sudden bite of cold air against his naked flesh made Aoshi gasp faintly.  He stood, gathering his yukata loosely around himself.  He caught Sagara’s elbow after he unrolled a mat for sleeping, spread a blanket over it.

 

“Sagara…”  He tugged the older man back against him, sliding the back of his hand down his abdomen.  There was still something hiding inside him, and suddenly Aoshi found himself wondering if he could make Sagara feel weak.

 

Sagara caught his hand, pulled it firmly to his mouth to slide a kiss over the back of his fingers.  "Don't," he murmured.  "It's all right."  He pinned Aoshi hand against his chest and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to shake off that brief desire.  He turned, tugging Aoshi after him as he slid down to the futon. “Let’s just… try to get some sleep, all right?" he offered weakly. 

 

Aoshi frowned, already starting to forget his fatigue.  "I want to," he said firmly, twisting his hand slowly out of Sagara's grip to slide down his chest once more.  He lifted himself on one elbow so he hovered above the older man.  “Hmm.  You look different from up here.”

 

Sagara blinked once, startled, and then a warm smile slid over his lips.  “Is that all this is about?” he said with a hint of childish impetuousness.  “Winning?”

 

“Isn’t it?”  Aoshi devoted himself to the movement of his hands, trying to mirror the way Sagara had touched him.  He slid further down the man's body and pressed his hands to the insides of his thighs, spreading them.  Sagara may have thought him beautiful, or mysterious - whatever he'd said - but Aoshi wasn't thinking along those lines right now.  It could have been anyone, he told himself, holding his breath as his fingers moved carefully over and then inside the man's garments.

 

“Maybe that’s it.  You’re right.” 

 

Aoshi glanced up at him.  He hadn’t liked the man’s voice just then, nor, it seemed, the expression on his face.  Slowly he withdrew his hand.  "Why are you doing this?  If this isn’t what you want… what is this about?"

 

“Aoshi…”  Sagara’s eyes fluttered open once more.  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”  He laughed dryly, lifting himself on one elbow, slipping one hand around to the back of Aoshi’s neck, drawing him closer.  "I told you already. I'm doing this because I like you."

 

Aoshi allowed himself to be drawn, his eyes never leaving Sagara’s face.  Liked him… It sounded like something Misao would say.  Was it even a good enough excuse? 

 

He wanted to ask why, but even without speaking he knew how ridiculously out of place the question would sound.  Sagara wouldn’t have an explanation for something like that.  Wasn't it Aoshi, after all, who had dragged a wounded stranger into his home, without hesitation or question?    So maybe it wasn't so unbelievable.  To think that they might like each other.  "Oh."  Aoshi couldn't form any other words as he pressed his cheek against Sagara's chest.

 

For a moment, it was perfect, and sweet, but then Sagara shifted above him, his fingers curling in Aoshi’s hair.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I never would have touched you if I had thought I was going to hurt you.  I’ve had enough of that.”

 

“You didn’t,” Aoshi replied.  “Haven’t.  I just…”  He sighed.  “Do you really think I’m that young?”

 

Sagara chuckled, but when Aoshi tensed a little, his arms tightened apologetically.  "In years, yes.  But your soul…" He shook his head. "There are parts of you," he said slowly, carefully, "that are not as young as I wish they were."

 

“What is that supposed to mean?"  Despite his words his tone was not sharp, merely questioning.  Sagara acted as if he knew him so well, but did he?  Could he really?  And if he did, could he not share that private wisdom?  "You always say things I don't understand."

 

“I just wish,” Sagara said.  “That you could be a little less cynical.  A little more unspoiled.  It makes me think… I don’t know you the way I should.”

 

"Oh."  Aoshi found again that he was at a loss for words, and he curled more tightly against the other man.  Cynical and spoiled... he would have said realistic and honest.  "Cynicism keeps you alive," he muttered, and regretted it swiftly, because he knew Sagara would take it the wrong way.

 

“Perhaps… perhaps you’re right…”

 

Sagara’s voice was choked, and Aoshi knew somehow that if he looked up now, there would be tears in his eyes, faint and crystalline.  “I'm sorry.  I...didn't mean to...."  He trailed off uncertainly, and at last he only moved his hand faintly over Sagara's ribs, wondering if the gesture would bring him some comfort.

 

Sagara’s hand fell over his, holding it against his chest.  "Kiss me again, and I'll think about forgiving you," he whispered, not so quietly that Aoshi wouldn't be able to hear the fragile teasing in his voice.

 

Aoshi sighed as he lifted himself again, gazing down at Sagara with his head tilted slightly to the side, bird-like and inquisitive.  He leaned forward, granting the requested kiss, deepened it a moment later.

 

Sagara almost seemed to wilt beneath him, giving way like faulty ground.  He landed heavily on his back, tugging Aoshi against him.  When the younger man pulled away a moment later to catch his breath, Sagara didn’t loosen his grip.  “Aoshi, I just… want you to know, nothing good has happened to me since I took up the sword.”  He gasped quietly.  “Nothing, except…”

 

"Don't.  You don't need to say that now..."  Aoshi passed his palm gently over Sagara’s eyes, coaxing them to close once more.  He didn't want to hear anything so heartfelt - not until he could straighten out his own reactions to everything that had happened.  "I think we should both sleep.”

 

Sagara smiled, though his face was still a bit pale.  “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all night.”  He shifted Aoshi aside, just long enough to snag the blanket from the foot of the mattress, sweeping it over them, folding the younger man once more in his arms.

 

Aoshi sighed quietly.  Later, he wouldn't admit how deeply that warmth penetrated him, but he really had never felt anything quite like it.  He squirmed closer.  "I think so, too," he whispered, turning his face into Sagara's neck.  "Just like this."

 

The openness with which they had spoken, the intimacy of Sagara’s hands, they still hung over him, pressing against him like deep water.  He felt raw, but perhaps sleep would heal that.  Sleep, or waking with Sagara still at his side.

 

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