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The Lifestream

Gundam Wing

Dipping into the sink full of soapy water again, Aya's hands moved in the slow mindless motion of washing a plate. He could have used the dishwasher, but there weren't that many dishes, and he rather needed the repetitive simplicity of it to help clear his mind. He didn't need to pay much attention to it to be able to do it well, and that was a blessing of momentary peace.

His thoughts drifted as he washed and racked a plate, then started on a stack of bowls. A nagging feeling that something was wrong threatened to torment him if he stopped to examine it. His mind offered up images of a clean white hospital room, but he shook his head. It wasn't his sister, wasn't the loss of his family. It wasn't his need to avenge them telling him he shouldn't be wasting time like this. Not this time, at least.

Lifting a bowl from the submerged stack in the sink, he glanced down. The water looked surprisingly clear; most of the bubbles had evaporated already. Cheap dish soap. He swirled the dish cloth once, and a sudden darkening of the water caught his eye.

...stained with blood....

Heavy, rich, a red-brown stain, thinning and diluting as it spilled from the bowl into the sink.

...like blood in the rain, the water pooling and washing away....

Hands frozen half-in, half-out of the water, he watched in mute horror and fascination. His mind refused to process it for a moment, and he hung on the edge of hysterical laughter at the thought of blood filling this oh-so-domestic scene. A numb chill swept over him, leaving him almost shivering.

"Hey," Ken said, stepping up on his right.

Aya twitched, dropping the bowl he was holding. It fell with a muted chink against the remaining dishes in the sink.

"Are you alright?" Ken asked, leaning over to peer into the sink. "Why didn't you just use the dishwash -- oh! Damn. I forgot to rinse out the soy sauce. Sorry, Aya."

Blinking, Aya raised his hands out of the water and shook them off before reaching for a tea towel to dry them on. Ken's body was warm, the heat of his presence banishing the sudden chill that had gripped Aya, and he found himself almost leaning towards the other boy. Shaking his head, he pulled back, busying himself with drying his hands. "Soy sauce?" he said, his voice sounding odd, even to him.

"Yeah," Ken replied, turning to face him. A slight frown wrinkled his forehead. "I was marinating mushrooms and got carried away with the sauce. Sorry," he said again.

Aya's lips quirked in a momentary thin smile. "Don't worry about it."

"I, uh...." Ken glanced from Aya to the sink, and back again. Aya wondered how startled he looked to the other boy and tried to compose his features into their usual bland veneer. "I'll just finish up, here, then," Ken's nervous tone turned it into a question, and Aya simply nodded. Hanging the towel back up, he stepped out of Ken's way.

"Hunh. Looks like blood, doesn't it, Aya?" Ken sounded vaguely amused by the idea.

Shaking his head, Aya slipped out of the kitchen silently. Ken doesn't understand, he thought, but even as he did, he couldn't decide for himself what kind of understanding he meant. He just knew that Ken didn't have it, didn't get it -- whatever it was. And that disappointed him. As he paused in the living room, the vision of the spreading red stain blurred his vision again, and after a moment's debate, he gave in to his restless urge and left the apartment.

It was raining outside; a thin, steady drizzle that turned the entire world grey.

And he'd come out without a jacket. Shrugging, he set off down the street anyway, not caring. The rain suited his mood. With any luck it might wash him clean.

He walked, letting his feet lead him where they would, not paying much attention to the streets he passed in his wandering. As he turned a random corner, a crowd of people on the sidewalk ahead made him check his pace. Someone was sobbing; the deep, bone-wrenching sound of loss vibrated along his skin. Sirens screamed as police cars raced up the street. Their dancing lights refracted off thousands of raindrops, scattering blue, red, and yellow fragments over the bystanders, the sidewalk, the buildings.

Pushing back the hair that threatened to blind him as it plastered flat to his scalp and face, Aya made his way carefully around the disturbance. Unlike most of those gathered, he didn't try to sneak a look. He had no interest in seeing more death.

But the rain had other ideas and, as he stepped down off the sidewalk onto the street, his gaze was caught by the spreading stain trickling towards him.

...death, loss, the crimson stain....

The world swung dizzily for a heartbeat, and then he was walking, fast, determined to get away from the crime scene. Overhead, thunder rumbled, and the rain fell harder, leaving him almost blind from the constant stream of water down his face. The ends of his bangs stuck to his cheeks no matter how many times he pushed them back.

Dead end, his distracted mind registered suddenly. Wiping his face yet again, he shaded his eyes with one hand, absently trying to keep the rain off long enough to see where he was. An alley, and one about as generic as they came, with a large green dumpster -- not stuffed to overflowing yet, surprisingly -- and a few tall steel drums that might have held anything from oil to olives. He wasn't going to investigate. There were flat brick walls ahead of him and to either side. In the left-hand wall, beside the dumpster, was a door with no handle that probably led to a greasy kitchen.

His bleak surroundings did nothing but emphasize the fact that he'd been running blind.

...but you can't run from the pain inside... the hollowness you carry with you.

For a moment, he thought the words had fallen from the sky like raindrops. Then he realized he was quoting some pop song of Omi's to himself. He shook his head, sending a shower of rain flying from his hair.

Walking slowly back up the alley, he blinked raindrops from his eyelashes. In that moment between rain blurs, he realized he wasn't alone. His fingers reached for his katana, but he'd left the house without it, of course. Cursing his luck, he stopped, planting his feet firmly on the rain-slick concrete.

"Well, well," the stranger said. "And what do we have here?" His tone was light, playful, almost teasing. "A little wet flower-boy, I see."

Aya bristled, recognizing the man as he stepped closer. "Schuldich," he spat, or tried to, but the water running down his face leaked into his mouth and softened the word. "I should have known you'd be around."

"And why's that?" Schuldich drawled, tilting his head to one side in a gesture of bird-like curiosity.

"The dead man a couple blocks back," Aya growled. A distracted part of his mind wished idly for a headband like the other man wore. His hair was just as flat and wet as Aya's, but at least he didn't have the rain constantly in his eyes. And he knew his accusation wasn't logical, but he needed to make sense of this surprise meeting somehow.

Schuldich shrugged eloquently. "Wasn't me. But what are you doing out here, little lost flower-boy?"

The rain was trying to get into his brain. Leaking in his ears, floating his thoughts right out of his head.... NO! No. That was Schuldich, it had to be. The telepath's mental fingers were reaching for him, and Aya hastily slammed up what little defenses he had against such attacks.

"What are you doing here?" Aya countered. He folded his arms across his chest, hugging himself against the chill that threatened to seep into his bones. And it just wasn't fair that the other man looked so calm and collected, so cheerful, so...

...warm and attractive....

He squashed the thought ruthlessly.

Schuldich smiled thoughtfully. "I just happened to be in the neighbourhood --"

Aya snorted. "Oh, you're in the habit of wandering down dark, rainy alleys for fun, then?"

"The most... interesting things happen in such places," Schuldich murmured, stepping closer.

It occurred to Aya that this conversation, this entire situation was completely and utterly absurd. He was alone, wet, unarmed, with no idea where the rest of the Schwarz team was. Maybe they were gathering even now, closing in for the kill, and here he stood, bickering with Schuldich.

"They're not," Schuldich said quietly.

Aya blinked at him, cursing the rain that spilled from his eyelashes again. Like tears. "Don't do that," he hissed.

"You really wanna keep me out? I don't think you do, and I know you can't." Advancing on Aya, Schuldich forced him back until his shoulders bumped up against the brick. "You don't look much in the mood for a fight, flower-boy."

"Stop it," Aya growled. There were too many layers of meaning here, too many reasons for this not to be happening, too much significance to this seemingly chance encounter. He needed space, his sword, to be dry for cryingoutloud. To have himself together, and not aching with something he couldn't admit to.

And not deathly afraid that Schuldich would pick it out of his head. Or worse yet, already had.

Schuldich's body was warm, even in the rain, and Aya was distinctly aware of it when the other man placed one hand flat-palmed on the wall beside his head, trapping him. They were sworn enemies, he told himself sternly, glaring up at the implacable look of good humour on Schuldich's face.

And between enemies there is only death...

"We have tasted death, have we not, Aya?" Schuldich murmured, his expression suddenly intent. His green eyes caught and held Aya's violet ones.

Aya couldn't look away, even if he wanted to, which he wasn't sure he did. His thoughts followed the path Schuldich's words had started them on. ...tasted death... heard its siren song....

"We know it is better to give than to receive." Schuldich's lips twisted in a self-mocking smile, his eyes inviting Aya to share in the bitter humour. And he could feel those raindrop fingers in his head again, drip, drip, dripping their way down into his thoughts, floating them away.

...stained with crimson....

"We know what it is to bled, to burn, to steal the precious gift of life from others. No one else will understand that, flower-boy."

...no one will ever understand you... not like I do.

Crimson stained his thoughts, like soy sauce in the rain, and he couldn't tell anymore which thoughts were his, which Schuldich's; which spoken, which diluted and floating on watery fingers.

"And when you peel all the layers away, all the meaning and significance, what's left, Aya?" Schuldich leaned forward, bringing his lips to within an inch of Aya's, his green eyes boring into Aya's soul. "Just you and I," he whispered, his breath teasing Aya's lips.

"...and I," Aya echoed.

Their lips met, though Aya couldn't tell which of them had moved to close the gap. He was shivering suddenly, chilled to the bone. Schuldich's strong arms wrapped around him, pulling their bodies tight against each other. Aya ignored the discomfort of wet clothing, twining his fingers urgently in Schuldich's long wet hair, sucking hungrily at the other man's exploring tongue.

He shouldn't be doing this, couldn't be doing this, desperately needed to be doing this.... This was what was missing. This filled the hollowness in him, suddenly and completely, with a burning warmth that made him forget the rain.

Oh yes, and this time he was aware that it was Schuldich's voice in his head. I know what you need, flower-boy. But will you take it from me?

Aya bit Schuldich's lip hard enough to draw blood and the other man grunted, forcing him up against the wall again.

Good answer, Schuldich laughed. His hand left Aya's back, fingers reaching instead for the button on his jeans.

Getting his pants and underwear down even as far as his knees was work. The soaking wet denim stuck to his skin, peeling heavily and reluctantly away from his hips. "Leave them there," Schuldich whispered, having a much easier time stripping down his dress pants.

Aya would have protested, but Schuldich grabbed his arm, turning him to face the wall so fast that he stumbled. "That's better," Schuldich murmured, pulling Aya tight against him. Wrapping one long arm around Aya's throat, he used his other hand to spread Aya's ass cheeks.

This won't bring you peace, you know. He grunted, forcing his way into Aya's tight hole.

...not... not looking... for peace... Aya replied raggedly. The burning pain of Schuldich's entry lingered, but didn't overwhelm the sudden burn of need/desire that flared in his groin.

So you think. Schuldich set a hard rhythm, his hand moving to wrap around Aya's shaft as he thrust.

Aya didn't answer him. He wasn't looking for peace. He knew what he was looking for, and held the thought as small and close in his mind as he could. Warmth.

With the pressure of Schuldich's arm around his throat nearly taking his breath away, he concentrated on the motion of their bodies grinding together. Schuldich's raindrop fingers were still in his brain, showing him how much it was turning Schuldich on to take him like this. Part of him thought that he should be disgusted, but the sharing of thoughts made his heart race with the strange thrill of almost taboo pleasure. His breath came in short rough gasps as they moved together.

Schuldich pounded into him again and again, taking him to the edge of pleasure-pain. It was a place he'd never been before, but hungered for. This fiery heat that filled him, burning away all thought but of itself, let it consume him.... He knew he would dream of it, dream of this night in the rain. And maybe it wouldn't ease the ache, but it would remind him....

Schuldich's hand tightened almost painfully around him and Aya tossed his head back, almost screaming his pleasure as he came. His ass clenched tight around Schuldich, and the other man growled, biting Aya's shoulder as he found his own release.

A few moments later, Schuldich pulled out, and then the pain did hit him, and it was all he could do to bend far enough to wrestle his clothes back up. Schuldich busied himself with his own clothes, and still managed to be presentable before Aya got himself together and turned around. He kept his back against the wall, afraid he'd topple over if he didn't.

Smirking, Schuldich leaned forward and kissed him, his tongue probing past Aya's half-parted lips. For a heartbeat, the spark between them almost flared again, but then Schuldich pulled back, ending the kiss.

Without another word, silent or spoken, Schuldich walked away.

"Why?" Aya called softly, clenching his teeth to stop them from chattering. He slid slowly down the wall, feeling the rough brick catching at his shirt, until he was sitting on the wet concrete.

"Why what, flower-boy?" Schuldich replied, glancing back over his shoulder. "Why fuck you and leave you?" He stopped, half-turning to face Aya.

Aya nodded miserably, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His ass ached and burned, telling him he really shouldn't be sitting on it, but he didn't have the strength to stand. The warmth that had filled him was dissipating like steam into the chill wet air.

"Because I can," Schuldich said, his expression unreadable. "And because you'll need me again." With a smile, he turned and walked away.

Dropping his forehead to his knees, Aya curled into a tight, trembling ball. If the wetness on his cheeks now was tears and not rain, no one would know.

...this is the price you pay....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~owari~

15.06.02