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I wonder if you know the pain, to want the one thing that you haven’t got.
'Mine' - Savage Garden
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The darkness conceals many things.
Without the light, I can pretend you are him. You look enough alike in daylight, it isn’t really too much of a stretch. As you loom above me in the darkness all I see are your dark eyes and even darker hair. I can’t see that your eyes are larger and wider than his; that your hair is thicker and longer. All I see is him, and it is enough.
You brush a lock of golden hair from my forehead, trailing warm fingers down my cheek. Your hands are soft on my skin; the hands of one who does not fight with a sword. I know that his are rougher now, but I can pretend that he has only just come to this world. That he has only just begun his sword training...and it is enough.
Your head lowers and your breath tickles over my lips. I part them, expecting a kiss; but you continue on, planting them instead on the sensitive skin under my jaw. I shiver as I feel your tongue slide over my flesh in long, lingering strokes. Moving lower still, you alternate between licking and nibbling gently. I can feel my skin heating under your attentions; feel my heart beat speeding up.
I can see only the top of your head as you begin to suck lightly at the junction of my shoulder and neck. I imagine that it’s him eliciting these reactions from my body. He smells different, though, my brain informs me.
The image wavers.
Your scent is that of the musty tomes you spend so much time cooped up with, mixed with the sweeter, fruity aroma of the oils you use to wash your hair. He smells more like fresh air and crushed grass; probably too much time spent outside throwing around those silly white balls.
I tell myself scent isn't all that important, anyway. Maybe he's just come from a lesson with Günter in the library, maybe...it's a stretch, but it is enough.
My fingers curl into your thick black hair, tugging slightly, demanding more. As you raise your head back up and begin sucking at my earlobe, your hands slide down my body, lower and lower, finally grasping at the flimsy hem of my nightgown. You quickly work the material up, exposing my heated and very naked skin beneath. A gasp escapes my lips as one of those oh-so-soft hands wraps firmly around my arousal.
"Wolfram," you murmur my name, the breath of it tickling at the soft hairs inside my ear. Your voice is smooth and a touch nasal. Goosebumps prickle over my body, it's not his voice. His is a bit harsher; a bit deeper. You have that same accent, though, that same lilt to your tone that betrays your other-worldly beginnings. It's not much of a similarity, but it is enough.
My hips thrust up of their own accord, trying to claim more of the delicious pressure offered by your hand. I can fell your own arousal, hard and warm against my bare thigh. You tease me, altering the grip of your hand from light, feather touches to hard, rough strokes. I groan in both pleasure and frustration; I want things to move much, much faster. I hate this slow pace, it gives me far too much time to think, and right now I really don't want to think.
Your mouth finds mine at last, tongue tracing the outline of my lips before plunging inside to run across, and then past my teeth. I taste you as our tongues meet and tangle wetly together. I can truly enjoy and indulge in this moment; after all, I have no knowledge of what he really tastes like. The illusion in my mind becomes more complete; there is nothing to challenge this sensation, nothing to create any doubt in my mind. It is enough.
My hands roam over your form, seeking out places that I subconsciously know will get a reaction. One hand rubs over a nipple; I pinch it and you moan into my mouth as the flesh crinkles and hardens beneath my fingers. My other hand wanders down your torso and over your stomach. I trap your own erection between my hand and the leg you have been subtly rubbing it against. You gasp and squirm as I apply more pressure; stroking you roughly against me.
You growl low in your throat, and grasp my hands, pulling them above my head. I am pressed further into the soft mattress as you straddle my thighs and grind our hips together. My back arches and our mouths meet again, hot breath mingling as the sweat-slicked skin of our bodies slides together.
I feel a satisfied smirk pull at my lips against yours; this pace is much more like it.
One of your hands leaves its shackle hold on my wrists, and I feel it begin to knead impatiently at my thigh, pulling the limb away from the bed. I lift it the rest of the way, helpfully looping it tightly about your back. I know what is coming and relax my muscles. I'm not particularly fond of pain, and we've danced this dance long enough that I now know what is needed to keep it to a minimum.
Breath still hitches in my throat as the first finger presses slowly inside. The first is always the worst, even though it is the least stretch. I wriggle uncomfortably for a few seconds, before clamping down more firmly on my control. I concentrate, instead, on our locked mouths and the sweet taste of you. I concentrate on telling myself this is his mouth, his finger probing deeper and deeper inside. It works, somewhat; I have no experience of this with him, either. It is enough.
It isn't until I notice the absence of the now-frustratingly arousing pressure inside that I realise how distracted I have been. There is no longer a cool press of fingers; now the warm tip of your erection is pressing against my entrance. Your hands slide up under my shoulders, firmly grasping hold as you lean forward, pushing slowly in. It is uncomfortable, but not painful. The discomfort is short-lived. Here, at least, I am not bothered by the slackened pace. Soon, only the spine tingling pleasure of being filled so intimately remains, as you begin sliding in and out with a steady rhythm.
I whisper a name, his name.
You don’t even pause anymore...we’re both too used to pretending. Both so consumed by our denial.
I wonder, fleetingly, if it’s enough for you too. I wonder if you’re content to settle for whatever you can get from me. You know I can never feel the same for you...not when he's all I see.
Streaks of light burst across my peripheral vision as a particularly hard thrust strikes that spot. Coherent thought scatters, and in those final moments the Yuuri above me and inside me is perfect. There are no flaws, no inconsistencies; my mind has made you totally and completely into him.
A strangled cry fills the air as the pleasure overwhelms me. For a few seconds all I see is white. My body arches into yours and warm, sticky fluid fills the small space between our stomachs. I tremble with the release, blinking the sun-like glare from my vision. I feel you shudder against me and your throaty moan catches on the fading edge of my own sound. Warmth fills me from the inside, and I twitch at the sensation through my now-highly sensitised body.
Full, yet so empty.
I always feel it…after. Something is missing from a moment that should be perfect. The illusion fades quickly; far too quickly. It drains along with the tingling pleasure, and you are just Murata Ken once more. Just a Sage. Not a King. Not him, never him.
You pull away and we roll apart. Not a word is said between us, the air filled only by our harsh panting for breath. I turn my back on you and curl tightly into an almost foetal position. I don't know what it is you do after; and as long as you're not trying to get close to me, I don't particularly care. If I can’t see you; if I can't feel you against me, then I can’t confirm that you aren’t him.
I silently curse the single tear that slides from the corner of my eye.
I hate that we inflict this cruel façade upon ourselves. I hate that you can't be him. Why can't I love you instead? Why can't I love you the way you so obviously want to love me? What does my half-blood brother have that I don't? What could he possibly see in him?
We don't deserve this. Yet we continue on, fooling ourselves over and over. Will we ever find true satisfaction from it? I doubt it.
But it is enough.
Just enough.
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