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It was a compelling and convincing argument, and for that reason Yohji chose to ignore it. Just because he couldn't win a fight with Aya by being right, didn't mean he intended to lose.

"It's still none of your business." Yohji lit his cigarette and sprawled in the big mission-room chair, squinting at Aya through spiralling smoke. Any minute now Aya would lapse into bad-tempered silence and that would be the end of that. True, Aya would probably sleep determinedly alone and with his door firmly locked for the next few nights, but it would be worth it.

"Why do you do this?" Aya said, sitting on the arm of the chair, dangling one leg over the edge, looking at Yohji through slitted eyes, head tilted to one side as if he was observing a particularly interesting beetle. "Why? It's as if you've got a self-destructive streak a mile wide."

"Well, duh." Yohji took a meaningful drag of his cigarette. "And you're not exactly spending your evenings on long pampering sessions and planning for your retirement, either."

"I look after myself," Aya said, quietly. "I don't plan on dying for a while yet. But you seem set on it."

"I'm clean, alright?" Yohji couldn't quite stop himself from pulling the sleeves of his sweater down over his wrists, even though he had nothing to hide. Not from Aya. "We're both more likely to die on a fucking mission anyway. If you really don't want to die maybe you should leave Weiß and go get a job in an office somewhere."

"This isn't about me." If Aya was as exasperated as Yohji thought he should be, he certainly wasn't showing it. He sounded almost patient.

It was very unnerving.

"I'm clean," Yohji said again. "For good this time."

"And the women?"

"I'm careful, alright? Safe sex all the way."

"And the alcohol?"

"Aya, for fuck's sake! You don't fucking own me!"

"Maybe I want to."

The room was suddenly very still and very quiet, and Yohji could swear he could actually hear his heart beating. Nothing moved except for the smoke from his cigarette, drifting lazily up to the ceiling.

Yohji cleared his throat.

Aya just looked at him. Eyes terribly beautiful and terrifyingly calm.

Yohji licked his lips. "You...."


"You mean-"

But before Yohji could get the rest of the sentence out, Aya's mouth was on his; Aya's fingers were in his hair; Aya's body was sliding off the arm of the chair to land in Yohji's lap.

And Yohji didn't care. Couldn't care. Couldn't think about anything other than how good it felt, how right, how much better down here in broad daylight than stolen at night in Aya's bed. And it felt pretty damn good then, so...

Yohji remembered what Aya had said, before he stole Yohji's brain with the kissing. And now the neck-stroking, and the rhythmic squirming in Yohji's lap. Yohji slid his hand underneath Aya's shirt to touch his spine, and let it sink in, that truth.

Aya shifted to straddle Yohji's thighs, making short work of his fly, snicking it open with a few deft flicks of his fingers. Aya took hold of Yohji's cock, firm and sure, and Yohji gasped, helpless in the face of that dexterous pleasure. Aya wasn't wasting time - probably wise, seeing as Omi or Ken could appear at any moment - and Yohji wasn't about to argue. He had a vague and pleasant notion that he would drag Aya upstairs afterwards; that they could spend the rest of the afternoon on Yohji's bed, discovering every inch of each other. He wanted to see Aya's skin glowing in golden autumn sunshine. He wanted to see what Aya looked like when he came. He wanted to see him smile.

Frantically, hungrily, Yohji ripped open Aya's trousers, pulling them off his hips until they stuck, held tight by the spread of Aya's thighs. Keen to return the pleasure Aya was giving him, Yohji curled his fingers around Aya's dick and squeezed. Fluttered his fingertip across the head, picking up sticky moisture from the tip. Aya gasped and bucked, his eyes fluttering shut. Yohji began to stroke, his movements as gentle as Aya's were firm, as slow and lingering as Aya's were fast. They'd learned each others' rhythm, although it seemed to Yohji that maybe they'd always known; it felt so right, natural, instinctive.

The pressure built fast in Yohji's balls and legs and belly; his dick tingled, his breath hitched and he came, hard and fast over Aya's surging hand. Aya made a noise like a growl or a purr, kept moving, kept milking, draining every last drop of Yohji's pleasure. But it wasn't enough. The hunger still burned in Yohji's body, the desire as bright as ever. His legs were like jelly and his mind was capable of little more than remembering to breathe, and that just barely - but he knew what he wanted. Knew what Aya needed. He shoved at Aya's chest, his hips, pushing him off his lap, forcing him to stand. Yohji followed him out of the chair, falling to his knees in an untidy, crumpled heap, awkwardly wedged between the chair and Aya's legs. He didn't care. Aya's cock was in his mouth in seconds; he pressed his palms to Aya's ass. Held him there. Sucked.

And Aya came down his throat, stroking his hair, letting out soft little cries, his cock throbbing in Yohji's mouth. Spurting. Warm, thick life that tasted far, far better than it should.

For a long time afterwards, Yohji knelt there with his cheek pressed to Aya's belly, breathing in the scent of him while Aya's fingers fluttered through his hair, across his cheek, his jaw, back to his hair.

"All right," Yohji said eventually, kissing Aya's navel before looking up, a smile for the most beautiful, hypnotic eyes he'd ever known. "You win."