17-Apr-2003
Breakdown: An Alternate Universe Weiss Kreutz Fanfic
by Nixerchan and bonnejeanne
Contact: nixerchan@aol.com and bonnejeanne@yahoo.com
Category: AU
Pairings: Various, or to put it another way, most of them ^__^;;
Warnings: Lime this section. Weird premise, weird psychic powers, probably confusing plot, um, possibly some OOC, some violence, probably gratuitous use of pointless Japanese and German, what else... oh yeah, LEMON from time to time... poor Nixers, I'm such a corrupting influence... ^__~
Rating: NC-17
SUMMARY/PREMISE: What if the Weiss boys actually possessed psychic powers similar to Schwartz, which had been suppressed or erased from their memories?
AU TIMELINE: Picks up *almost* at the end of the OAV, just after the death of Gen. Norman Powell.
/something/ - may indicate thoughts, telepathy or other psychic contact.
'something' - indicates just thoughts.
Chapter 19: Getting Up, Going Down
'My bed... is moving...' The fuzzy thought would have normally been a quite disconcerting thing, if it weren't also accompanied by the after affects of a near-alcohol poisoning binge. And the fact that there didn't seem to be a wall between him and the sun. Not that he dared open his eyes yet, but the light was rude enough not to wait for that opportunity to aggravate his migraine through the flimsy shield of eyelids. And his bed wouldn't stop moving.
It was a childish urge that sent his elbow back, with enough force for peevishness, but enough caution for his aching skull. He froze when what it impacted wasn't either the hard wood of the deck or the fabric of a mattress. It coincided with the knowledge that there was an arm around him... and the hand was proving that there wasn't much distance in hip riding pants.
The arm tightened reflexively, and the body behind him shifted, something pushing against his hip through two layers of material. A touch of breath against his shoulder.
Youji couldn't force his body to move, desperately fishing for what memories would creep out from under the pulsing headache. The fuzzy sensations of confusion, a strange conversation, the conflict of a wet heat on his skin and the increased chill it left open to the night air, sliding hands he never thought, or wanted, to stop.... He was familiar with the sensations, especially in the light of a hangover, but not the voice that came with them... a lilt somewhere between male and female.
"Ano..." he shifted slightly, teeth grit against a pain that threatened to send him right back under. 'How far...?' the presence of clothes didn't stop that line of thought at all. He knew about far too much that didn't require any or little undress.
The hand that was under the waistband of his pants shifted as the body next to him wakened little by little. The fingers brushed the top of his flesh, through the soft nest of curls there, and then slid up and out. Farf yawned widely as he sat up, stretching. He reached up, pulling the slightly askew patch off entirely to rub a hand over his face. Under the covering, whatever horrific damage might have been expected was only a faint white scar over a closed eyelid that slid open a little. The orb was milky. Deft fingers slid the patch back into place after he'd rubbed his hand over the skin.
Youji felt a bit of a flush as his body managed a faint reaction to the brief personal touch. Eyes squeezed shut and hand unsteadily finding his temple, he struggled a bit first with the covering over him, then finding any purchase to get himself up. Panic later, apologize possibly, but for now, he wanted a nice dark place, possibly with quick access to a bathroom.
The Irishman made it to his feet first, reaching a hand down to pull the blond up almost absently. Youji was guided to a ladder, found himself in front of a door that looked like it was to a cabin, and left as Farfarello pursued an impulse to somewhere else.
He'd followed the guidance on an odd sort of trust, and only then really forced himself to open his eyes to get more than a blurry, color-drained impression of the world. Fumbling with the door, he stumbled a little in the act of walking, but the more than welcome sight of a bed overruled anything else, including an unfamiliarity with the room itself. As quickly as he dared, he laid himself out and pulled the pillow over his head. If anyone thought he was getting up anytime before dinner, they were not only insane, but well deserving of whatever pain they received in the attempt.
Still, the hangover was part of his point for drinking. Shoulders hunched, Youji accepted it, considering the rest of it... he didn't feel any worse, no damage... so whatever did happen, it couldn't have been too bad. It mixed with the memories of confusion and a strange paradox of a dangerous gentleness.
Youji woke a little later without much of an idea how much time had passed, to a sense of presence that his instincts responded to even through the hangover. There was a scent in the room, movement next to the bed, then a withdrawal and quiet again. The scent was familiar with an odd addition.
Opening one eye, he saw a mug of something on a table beside the bed. The scent of coffee was strong but there was an undercurrent of something else.
After a moment another sound. Muffled through a half closed door, water running - a shower.
It caused another stiffening, but something of a reduction in the pain behind Youji's eyes was enough to move his hands under himself and push up a little. He turned to sit, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed like it was his only support, and might have been. With a quick, almost guilty glance towards the bathroom door, he reached for the coffee, a moment's pause taken to try and make out the second scent before tentatively sipping the hot liquid.
His eyes widened a little bit at the second taste, almost completely covered by the potency of the coffee itself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd 'cured' a hangover with more of the same. Raising the cup, in a salute to empty air, he took a deeper sip of the spiked coffee. It wouldn't be enough to get him anywhere near tipsy again, but whatever would take the edge off it.
Half a cup later and feeling something resembling human, he glanced around the room again... finding not much of identifiers in the small space, but what was there wasn't a surprise. There were an extremely limited number of rooms, no matter how big the vessel was, and immediately eliminating his own room, left only one other possibility.
The water sound stopped, followed by movement in the next room, and then the door opened and the room's 'owner' walked out, a towel on one shoulder but otherwise naked. He glanced superficially at Youji but knelt beside a military green duffle on the floor without greeting. Garments were pulled out and he proceeded to dress.
Youji's initial expression might have been a more familiar sight on Omi's face. It was covered quickly by an immediate and tenacious focus on the contents of his cup. The sight was more than enough, one part of him fixed on identifying scars, the other making catcalls. "Thanks," he said, his voice a little rough, "And 'm sorry if I did anything."
Standing to button the black sleeveless tunic, the white-haired boy glanced over at Youji, his lips pulling to one side in a smirk.
"Should be sorry you didn't," he returned, palming the retractable spike from where ever it had been laying and fitting it into a pocket.
Youji didn't really have an answer for that. The whole statement was confusing, even with the relief that the implication in it brought. He fell back on rueful humor. "Why? Wouldn't remember it anyway."
"Might have paid for the coffee though," the answer was offhanded. Something on the boy's upper arm was starting to ooze red just a little. He pulled a roll of white gauze out of the bag and began wrapping it around the area, tucking the end with deftness of habit. Dropping the roll back in the duffle, the young man crossed the room to the bed, took the cup from Youji and drank the last of it. Dropping the empty cup back in Youji's lap, Farf placed a hand on the tangled mop of dark gold, brushing at it. "Nice kitty." He walked unhurriedly to the door and opened it to leave.
The sound of snickering came from behind him, followed closely by a muffled "nnh" of pain. It was a second before the source of humor was voiced. "Must be cheap coffee then. I'll owe you something, if we're talking trades."
He got an odd smile and a look from a gold eye and then a closed door and an empty room.
There were both benefits and risks of sleeping in close contact with a telepath. The feeling of an absolute, inescapable emptiness creeping into Crawford's dreams was an illustration of one of the risks. Even with someone who was as high a level as Schuldig, nightmares bled when the unconscious was shaken enough by them. Some people talked in their sleep, others shouted or kicked, Schuldig had a tendency to share.
The feeling/memory/fear of shattering as not one but every sense was lost clung like cobwebs to Crawford's mind as he woke.
The American woke with teeth gritted slightly, shaking his head to dispel some of the shared sensations. He had his own dreams to contend with. The most frequent was reliving the same ten minutes over and over, making the correct choices every time only to have it alter nothing. He hadn't found the movie "Groundhog Day" very funny and in fact had sent the producers anonymous death threats. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the telepath, even more closely that usual. Slowly he began shifting to get himself out of the bed.
Any lingering, unconscious connection cut immediately at the movement, snapping back behind long cemented guards. Schuldig's eyes opened, focusing as Crawford stood, then flicking back to the window, a little surprised to see the lightening sky. "Still here?" there was a note of surprise in the sleepy murmur.
Crawford didn't answer. He wasn't really surprised Schuldig didn't remember. "Don't let it go to your head," he said with a slight smile.
"Hmph," Schuldig snorted, not quite awake enough to put anything behind it. He rubbed his face. "Something good musta happened outta this." The statement had the air of a conclusion.
Crawford began taking off his rumpled clothing preparatory to changing. "Something good happened - no one was killed."
"Was that close?" Schuldig asked, eyes closing again. He doubted he was the only one included in that statement, but he wasn't inclined to argue on a personal basis with it.
"Or rendered permanently insane, in a non-self-supporting capacity," the American responded. "And I wouldn't leave you like that. But don't worry about how close. It's been closer a few times in the past. More than a few."
The faint shiver wasn't quite hidden by the covers draped over the telepath's form. He didn't respond to that, just opened his eyes to watch Crawford's movements through the room. The flash of a very physical appreciation for the American almost entirely covered another sort, given almost off handedly as the other finished undressing.
Glasses slid into place to turn green eyes non-descript again. Crawford chuckled and blew Schuldig a kiss. A hand ran through hair just slightly too long, skewing the businessman image just a little. "You did good work last night. I'll make it clear you're not to be overtaxed that way short of a *real* emergency."
"Would be appreciated," Schuldig said, brushing right over the sting and pointed reminder in the words that came with the compliment and reassurance. "Just make sure both of 'em are in front of you when you do..."
A small smirk acknowledged the suggestion. "I will." He paused, taking a seat next to the bed. "How much of you do I have back today?"
The redhead seemed to put some real consideration into the question. "Most, I think," he said, finally.
The precog watched him carefully for a moment, making his own assessment. Then he nodded. Standing up, he said, "I'll take care of breakfast but you have to come get it."
"That works," Schuldig replied. The idea of a shower sounding a lot better than sleep now that he'd tried that, he was weighing it against comfort and time needed for a relatively hot meal as well. This was more than rare, and Schuldig was an opportunist if nothing else. He worked upright, fishing haphazardly for the scarf that had slipped off at some point in the night.
Easing a worry kept carefully behind his own shield, Crawford left the room for the large ship's galley where he decided to supplement the eggs with an indulgence he thought the German would appreciate. The galley had a waffle maker.
/He didn't know... truly, he didn't know... if he'd known, I'm sure things would have been different... I think.../
The voice was perhaps the most recognizable thing, the most recognizable voice. He hadn't spent time with Persia. The man had kept him at a deliberate distance. It was Manx who...
/What have we done, Shuichi? What have I done? I didn't know... and now it's almost too late to make amends.../
The thoughts weren't his own, yet they bloomed in his mind as if they were.
/I don't care about dying, I want to see you again, Shuichi, but I have so much to tell him... I've waited too long, it's too late, and I never found out the purpose.../
Faces, names, incidents, reports, carefully collected tidbits, loosely strung supposition.... all were unreeling in a random order.
/I was recruited when I was sixteen. There was a training facility but I only spent a few weeks there. The rest at other places, then my job with the police department. Shuichi Taketori... my love.../
Fear, resignation, urgency, regret, grief....
Omi wasn't aware of making a soft sound of protest, eyes tightly closed, arms starting to move up around his head.
The feeling of contact was distant, reinforcing a presence that had stayed at the edges. Sinking in, there wasn't so much of a separation offered as quiet.
For a time he was too immersed to feel the cool sense of the other boy. The discovery was almost random, accidental, but once discovered, he slid closer and closer, the other thoughts growing fainter. It gave him time to try and pull conscious and waking thoughts together. From there it was a fumbling but progressive matter of identifying which thoughts/memories/impressions weren't his, and shoving them ruthlessly into a memory compartment. The first coherent thought that formed towards the end was a regret that he couldn't just download it all to disk and have done with it.
/Awake now?/ The voice was soft but no longer that of a female's. The residuals of concern were dissipating with a run of humor at the mental picture. Nagi's weight settled again beside Omi. /I'm not sure what extension you'd put it under./
Omi's response was at first a flood of recognition/emotional embrace/relief/love/relaxation.
/.mnx/ was the thought at the end of that, with a mental grin. Omi opened his eyes, realizing that he was wrapped around Nagi like a boa constrictor. /Ah! Gomen.../ However the entanglement only loosened, didn't withdraw.
The other boy seemed comfortable enough where he was, and only met the apology with a dismissal. The flood was met with a simple openness, and a half formed notion of never tiring of it. The return of it was more subtle, freeing an arm long enough to run fingertips along the side of Omi's face, now becoming a familiar gesture.
The next thought came quietly from Nagi, more than one emotion repressed ruthlessly behind it. /I see why he was so pissed at me now. I didn't know it was like that./
Omi opened eyes that had closed at the caress. A sigh mixed with an assent. Then a flare of protective anger, not hot, very cool, almost impersonal, there and gone in an instant. /Still better not touch you again./ It lightened up immediately, along with his own sense of having done something he'd probably have not done *quite* the same way with a clearer understanding of the situation.
Shifting without moving away at all, Omi sighed again and nuzzled the other boy's hair and neck, for a moment unmindful of the usual considerations.
/Missed Abyssinian last night./ Nagi's eyes closed, a sort of contentment running easily before he bothered to build back up most of the walls again. The memory of it had enough of a reservation to keep it from the surface. /He's not as.. far off... as he seems./
/Aya-kun?/ Omi poked a finger through Nagi's thick dark brown hair with a mental image of crawling through it that subsided when he realized it was bleeding through. There was a slight embarrassment but also a little self-directed amusement. /Far off... no... he just seems that way. Reminds me of a hunting cat. Quiet, quiet in the grass so you don't know he's there, but always watching./
A yawn presaged a stretch. "What... did he want?"
"To know about Manx." Nagi shook off the oddity of the mental image with a slight twist of a smirk. The second thought only got a slow agreement, thick with a distant consideration. "And what had happened in the hall."
It came with the mental image of a bright red hunting cat crouched in the shadows where the earlier drama had played out.
Omi blinked, then grinned, lasting for a moment before he sighed again. /Great, witnesses./ It was wry and unserious. Then another sigh. A memory.
"Youji..." the flare of concern and belated guilt was swift on the heels of the previous thought. "I was going to check on Youji-kun..."
The dark boy's distaste for the idea of moving was apparent for a few moments. It was a feeling, one of a longer association, rather than a conviction. /Someone will stop him if he decides to do something stupid over it./ A brief memory of the Irishman's company in the hospital hallways, particularly the short exchange of comments. /That's rare enough that it might hold his attention for a while./
Omi's eyes widened. His reaction was a combination of surprised, slightly freaked out, curious, and dubious. "Uh..." he said. "Still want to check on him... but he's probably not awake, so I'm not going to jump up or anything." A curious tilt. /You... guys are...friends.../ Impression from the park. The word having something beyond the general team mate association.
/...We've known each other the longest./ It was given slowly and put aside to be considered further a little later. /He's not how you know him when he's not hunting./ It was accompanied by a mental shrug.
That was considered and accepted. The truth was that the lines around how Omi saw the other members of Schwartz had been blurring quietly but with a certain rapidity. It was inevitable and irreversible. Even trying to summon his hate for Schuldig, fear of the others, he could remember the feelings, know why they had been, the reasons hadn't gone, but the feelings were distanced and blurred by others he didn't even have memories to explain.
Nagi had withdrawn for a moment or two, taking the process of thought away from the surface, spurred on by the other's train of thought. It was easier now, under a light that he hadn't understood a week ago, to wonder about an alliance of a strange respect, a mutual flaw and sheer survival. "Maybe friends," he admitted, a physical shrug this time.
The smile and emotion returned by the blond was a combination of affection, acceptance and fascination. He ducked his head but the smile remained. "You put up with a lot," Omi commented. It was hard to think about... oh things like real work, when he wanted to simply curl up and enjoy the warmth of being able to feel anything, even shielded, from the dark haired boy.
Another stretch and a huge yawn later, Omi rubbed a hand over his face, finding little bits of sleep and other leakage dried against his skin. "Yuck. Okay. I think I need a wash." Wiggling slightly to half-perch on Nagi's chest, he planted a warm kiss on the boy's lips. "I'll be back."
Thin fingers ran through Omi's hair, curling slightly at the gesture. As the other boy withdrew, Nagi pulled the blankets, unused during the night, around him as a substitute for the retreating warmth. The faint smile was almost hidden as the small teenager buried himself. /What? No offer this time?/
The answer was nonverbal, mischievous, a flash of naked hips and side as seen in a mirror. /It's a standing offer, no refunds, never prohibited where void by law.../
The blond disappeared into the adjoining bath, and shorts, shirt, underwear, socks came flying out piece by piece to the hummed music of an old vaudeville strip tease number.
Distance, even such a short one, made the connection a little fuzzier, but a frozen shock, embarrassment, and a distinct if brief flash of temptation must have been strong if they carried as clearly as they did. Under control quickly, he heard a snort before he got the water started. "Tone deaf," was the boy's comment and an underlay of amusement.
A smacking sound indicated a noisily blow kiss as the blond slid into the shower. The physical sensations and relief of the warm water seeped along the connection, something that hadn't happened the last time either because they were further apart physically, or for some reason like the inescapable fact that the connection itself was shifting/deepening/sliding its boundaries with each event and the passage of time. "Everyone's a critic," he called back, spirits unexplainably high, aware of it but not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Nagi curled a little deeper under the covers. It felt distinctly voyeuristic, but he was reluctant to close off as much as he had the last time. It was easy to close his eyes and just let touch translate how it would. "Have to find a flaw somewhere," his voice rose, just enough to be heard over the shower. /It wasn't in that mirror after all./
The flash of eagerness was just barely caught and pulled back. The spirits lifted even more; any further and the edge of reasonable euphoria would be suspected. Indecision over whether to turn the water temperature down a bit to tone the reaction, and a reckless refusal. He did keep himself to the task for which he'd entered the cubical, washing quickly and thoroughly including hair, with shampoo found in the alcove. Not enough bravado to avoid washing certain areas as quickly as possible, not enough shame to close that brief time off, either. Recognition of a potential problem when it was time to get out, and a very brief, few seconds under a colder flood with a slight internal screech and a gasp, quickly over. At least the towel would stay down for a while, wrapped around slender hips.
Nagi had withdrawn a little too quickly just before the end, settling for curling on himself beneath the blankets and working on all the reasons, for as appealing as it was, revenge of a like kind would almost definitely be considered an encouragement. The other part was working on the 'So? Why not?' that followed that equation. He'd originally had been concerned as to how it would affect him if Omi continued a relationship with the older Weiss member, now it was a simpler wonder about the first time certain types of dreams would leave more insistent problems with the dawn. "Can't be helped," the statement was murmured, surprising himself with the lack of reluctance that came with it.
The feeling of Nagi watching him as Omi walked out of the shower was perhaps imagination, but it was followed by an unnatural breeze against his skin as a phantom touch was aborted. The apology wasn't verbal, but offered quickly before Nagi's presence dampened significantly.
Wide eyes turned, but Omi brushed the apology off just as easily as Nagi had so often done with his. The thought of holding Nagi's interest even for a few moments was yet another euphoric and one that he finally stopped trying to pull back. /Go ahead, if you want to... I like it./ The admission did coincide with a flush across fair skin, but he was also concentrating on pulling items of clothing from the bag, almost a reassurance that he wasn't going to take it any farther, not until and unless.
"That's not helping you know," Nagi replied to the thought out loud, voice a little muffled. It was easier to say 'just go ahead,' back when there was less between them. That was followed quickly by a reminder on how short a time ago 'back when' was. The reopening was cautious, with more concentration put towards clearing the fuzziness in thinking that heat had inspired.
Slipping on the minimum of items - two layers around the bottom half - Omi dragged the shirt and socks over to the bed and plopped on it. "Helping what?" he asked, his voice practical, the sensation of material constricting slightly but not unwelcome. "We're a mess, you know that? It's not just me, is it? I thought it was for a while. But you're a mess too." He grinned, and the expression as well as his contact was warm with affection/appreciation.
There was a sigh and relaxation in the boy beside Omi. "Me being a mess is what started this, remember?" Nagi replied, a wry impulse letting him deliberately misinterpret it. He shifted enough to look at the blond boy, this time nothing really getting through as lidded midnight eyes swept over Omi's stomach and up to his face.
Omi shook his head positively. "No, that's not it. You weren't a mess. You were distinctly un-messy." He flushed again as Nagi's eyes moved over him. "I... messed you up. *That* was what started this. But I just can't really be sorry about it any more."
"It's different." There was no assignment of good or bad to the statement, simply a matter-of-fact. The reaction in Omi sparked a bit of curiosity and another surge of temptation. That was turning out to be one of the more difficult concepts to deal with. He'd always just done what he wanted, but at the same time, those wants never included a need for someone else's permission, and a hesitance when it was given.
The concept of 'So? Why not?' was starting to win out against any number of arguments.
/So you always just took what you wanted./ Omi was listening closely to what was coming from the other boy. It fit with the interaction they had had in the park. He considered it. "What if I said, it's already yours, so take or don't take, just, make it what you want. I'm not gonna pretend something you already know isn't true - that I don't want to be with you any way I can. But I'm getting so much already. If you feel better keeping that out of it, fine. But if you want..." /Let me give you what you want, if there is anything.../
The last consideration, that of time, was solved more by impulse rather than conscious thought. The lock on the door made an audible *click* while the interest deepened, taking on another undertone. Nagi pushed down the covers just enough to sit up. Omi suddenly had the feeling of being suddenly held completely immobile, contrasted with the light almost gentle touch of Nagi's hands on his bare shoulders as the boy pressed a kiss against Omi's lips. /What I want, you just said is already mine./
/Yes.../ The acknowledgement coincided with a slight breathlessness. The feeling of being held still was odd, but... it didn't feel exactly wrong, just, strange. His eyes lidded at the kiss and the soft rush of affection/desire was instinctive. The touch on his skin sent a shivery kind of thrill across his senses.
There was very little preamble to Nagi's actions. He took the shirt from Omi's hands and discarded it, not particularly caring where it fell. His fingers traced a slow path across still damp skin, letting Omi go just enough to deepen the kiss he'd initiated. Only one of his hands drew back up, the other undoing recently fastened pants deftly. /I want to know what it's like for you./
The kiss became an answer in itself, hungry yet tender, passionate with the slight but perceptible hint of confusion. At the movement in his lap, the jolt of physical reaction was almost painful. Concentrating on breathing, Omi somewhat jerkily began trying to lower whatever barriers were left. /Okay.../ It *was* scary... not fear of the other boy or what he'd do, only of not being enough - not attractive enough, not knowledgeable enough, not something enough... but the vulnerability and that edgy feeling only seemed to drive the more physical reactions further up the scale.
Nagi broke the kiss, looking down long enough to untangle himself from the bedding he'd wrapped himself up in. His hand slid into the tight confines, curling then stroking lightly upwards. He moved forward, enough to feel the crisp cloth of the uniform against bare skin, and the ghosting of a less substantial touch along his skin where that light pressure held him still.
A feeling of pleasure/satisfaction/anticipation came back to Omi as the barriers dropped. The response he could feel breathed against the skin of his shoulder. "More than enough."
Omi's wide blue eyes very nearly rolled up in his head as the other boy touched him, his body firming instantly, finishing the reaction that had already begun. Coherent thoughts were impossible at that moment, the intensity of his excitement was too sudden and too strong. He felt lightheaded. Nothing mattered but the touch/nearness/sight/smell/heat. Desire could not resolve into any object or goal, it was simply, and blurred with sensory overload, a silent plea for more.
Omi's plea was answered at first by a stilling, then withdrawal. Nagi gathered enough of himself back together to pull the barriers on the blond's body down and out from under him. There was nothing as hard or focused any more, and the hold wavered more than a little as he resumed his attentions, using the newer freedom to experiment further.
Nagi placed one hand on the center of Omi's chest, pushing back just a little, the cushion of air accommodating the telekinetic's whims immediately. He flashed a dark smile up at Omi before moving back and down a leisurely lick, and a shudder through his own frame before taking Omi entirely.
If the blond had felt a kind of shock at Nagi's touch, it was nothing to the complete shock at this, which hit like a clap of thunder along with the sensations themselves, never felt, only imagined, and those imaginings never associated with this partner, vague and far away. It was enough to push a choked cry from his lips, almost enough to tip him over right there. The world seemed to spin around a center comprised of his body, but even more his mental/emotional sense of Nagi expanded, blinding him from any other perception. The roof of the cabin could have fallen on them and Omi would have been oblivious.
Whatever hold Nagi had on the blond disappeared, leaving Omi to support himself as Nagi lost any semblance of the focus required. Drowning in the perception of his partner, he stopped thinking about anything but that drive to completion. His hands drifted, drawn by sensation, and out of his own control, just translating and feeding back what felt good.
He withdrew a moment before he felt himself, felt them, go over, panting and showing more than a little frustration himself. He forced just enough calm between them to start again, moving with the arc of Omi's hips when he hummed, or pressed harder. /... just like this... if I could keep you.../ the though was fragmented by heat, and almost drowned by the concentration required just to keep it up.
Omi had fallen back on the bed, oblivious to everything except the flood of sensory information, his muscles responding with small contractions, the suspension of not quite being allowed to complete tearing through his body with the most delicious pain. The return of that warm, amazing stimulation pushing him higher, further... if he caught the fragmented thought from the dark haired boy, he was unable to process it, but the touch of his emotions, the desire wrapped around him feeding his own response, which he returned, radiating pleasure/need/joy/excitement/adoration like a small sun shedding light. A sun in the process of going nova...
TBC