Katchan Hatsu-koi This story is supposed to be the third in a trilogy -- the first two, in order, being More Time and Obbligato. I wasn't originally going to post this one, but have been pestered by someone who has read and loved it and insisted that it's needed to complete the other two. So here it is; please note the lemon and yaoi warnings; it's not graphic, but it's definitely there. Actually, it's less lemon than just a squeeze of citrus. Yaoi, for the uninformed, is used to refer to what my Japanese acquaintances call 'boy-boy stuff'. If you've read the other two stories, then you know which boys are involved ^_^ And it's a little mushy, BTW, just in case you don't like mushy stuff ::wicked laughter:: This is your last chance to back out, if you're not interested. Consider yourself duly warned. ^_^ Katchan ******* He walks beside me, hands in his pockets, almost relaxed. The only outward sign of his natural defensiveness is his quick eyes darting about, noting the position of every tree, every leaf, every possible hiding place for enemies. I know there is no danger here; I would not have coaxed him into coming with me, if I had not known that for certain. Behind us, as we walk, the grass and low plants move to hide our tracks, so we will not be easily found. I need to be alone with him for a while. The others would not understand, and so I have taken pains to ensure that they have no idea where to start looking for us. We step into a shady clearing. I look around, and the shrubbery closes in, enveloping the clearing, keeping us safe from prying eyes and accidental discovery. He half-turns his head, looks at me out of the corner of his eye. I take his hand into mine. He looks up at me, surprised, though this is not the first time I have held his hand. I pull him to face me, take his other hand, lace our fingers together, a small symbol of what I crave. He watches me, his fine eyebrows drawing together in thought. I say nothing, for what I need to tell him would take a lifetime to say. What could I possibly say? That I love him? Love is too weak a word to express the uncontrollable yearning that I feel when I look at him, when I think of him. That I need him? It doesn't nearly describe the raging emptiness in me that only he can fill. That I want him? Such a vulgar way of saying that I would sacrifice anything, anything at all, to have him give himself to me willingly, joyfully, as passionately as I want to give myself to him. I feel tears welling in my eyes again, and I look up, over his head, up to the comforting green of the canopy formed by entangled branches, blocking out the sun's heat. I hate that he has brought me to this, that just thinking of him can bring me to this. But I can hardly blame him; I have been the aggressor while he has stood passively by, have been the hunter while he has hidden from me. It is my own fault that looking into his fathomless eyes can make me cry, but I do not regret it, not for an instant. He slides one foot closer to me, then the other, and stands almost against me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, look down at him, hope my feelings are not written in my eyes, though I know they might as well be stamped on my forehead. I try to smile. He does not return it; but that is hardly unusual. His smiles are rare, which makes them the more precious to me. He lowers his eyes. I know these intimate moments are difficult for him, and I have never asked for more than he is willing to give. Daily, my desperate need for him increases, but he is able to give himself to me only in tiny painful portions -- I treasure each one, keep them hidden from anyone who might see, take them out and marvel over them when I am alone. He works his fingers free of mine, and I let my hands fall to my sides, swallowing a sudden lump in my throat and closing my eyes against disappointment. But then -- strong arms wrap around my middle, warm hands flatten against my back, pull me to him. I am too startled to react other than to open my eyes. He looks up, searching my face as he so often does, his own face solemn as always. He does not turn away. Hesitantly, as if I have not done it many times before, I gather him up in my arms. He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself, and exhales slowly. He glances around the clearing, then back up at me. I hook an ankle around his, trip him up, lower him easily to the cool grass; his eyes widen in alarm, but he says nothing, and does not struggle. I look deep into his eyes and see, as I always do, his terror at the thought of being so close to me. He trembles beneath me; his hands are clenched, holding fistfuls of my shirt. His lips are pressed tightly together, his jaw set. I reach up to touch his pale face, to smooth his frown. He is sweating, and I wipe his brow with my sleeve. I draw my fingers across his mouth, lean down to kiss him. His fingers tighten on my shirt. His breaths are shallow, quick; he closes his eyes. I move to lie beside him. I will take nothing from him that he does not give me gladly. He opens his eyes, turns his head to look at me, confused. I smile, caress his cheek again, move my hand round to the back of his neck and rub lightly. He lifts an eyebrow, not understanding. No matter my needs, no matter my unfulfilled desires, I will wait for him to come to me. He rolls to his side, to face me, the look of confusion turning to another puzzled frown. Our noses almost touch, and I can feel the heat of his body through my clothes. He has a beautiful body, compact and muscled, not a speck of extra fat anywhere. Too thin, perhaps, but he forgets to eat when he is concentrating on his training. I trail my hand down over his shoulder, along his arm, to rest on his hip. He does not flinch, does not pull away. His grip on my shirt finally loosens, and the panic in his features begins to fade. I smile again, to feel him relaxing. He watches me. He reaches up and takes a strand of my hair in his supple fingers, twirls it around his hand, examines it closely. He pushes it over my shoulder, hesitates. He smooths my hair, slides his fingers through it, holds his palm against my head. He leans up and kisses me, so softly I barely feel it. He pulls back and looks at me as though asking for my approval. I watch him, unspeaking. He lowers his gaze, leans forward and kisses my throat. I shiver, close my eyes a moment. He shifts closer to me. He is still nervous; his body is tense, his breath comes rapidly. I realise in a moment that I am holding my own breath, and release it slowly. I roll, keeping him beneath me, mindful not to put my whole weight on him. With one hand I begin unbuttoning his shirt, carefully, unhurried, holding his quiet gaze with my own. I push the shirt open and trail my fingers down over his chest, feel the ridges and hollows of his hard abdomen, revel in the warmth of his smooth skin, damp with sweat. He quivers at my touch. I look at his face, try to gauge his expression. He is still calm, his eyes fixed on me. I crawl backward a bit, lower my head and kiss his belly, just above his navel. He inhales sharply. I look up at him. He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. I flash him my wickedest grin and dip my tongue into his navel. He gasps, and sits up, puts his hand on my hair. I look up at him, dismayed, afraid I've frightened him. He smiles, suddenly, a slow, wondering half-smile. He lets me go, shrugs off his shirt, and leans back on his elbows. He watches me, expectant, trusting, waiting to see what I will do next. I make love with him, next. At first we move slowly, hesitating in our inexperience. I have long fantasised about exploring his body, discovering sensitive spots, learning what pleases him; but I have no chance this time as he catches me to him, suddenly, fiercely wanting. I am careful not to hurt him, not to intimidate him; but he is no longer afraid. I cling to him as the universe compacts to nothing but two people moving together, grasping, gasping, needing. I hold him against me, after, try to control my breathing. His body shakes, and he turns to me, presses against me, his forehead on my chest. I stroke his hair, murmur to him. I can feel his rapid heartbeat against my skin. He gulps, suddenly, and I think to myself that he must be crying, but I dare not look. When we finally disentangle ourselves, finally sit up and face one another, he is reluctant to lift his head. A single tear trickles down his cheek, drops from his chin. I reach up and wipe away the damp mark, lean forward and lift his chin, tenderly kiss his eyelids, his nose, his mouth. Something flashes, catches my eye, and I look down. His hand is open on his knee. Sparkling, in the middle of his palm, is a dark jewel. He closes his hand around it. I look up. He says nothing, but I know what this is. A tear gem. _His_ tear gem, tiny, black and glittering. He looks down at his fist. He takes my hand, turns it palm upward, places the gem carefully into it and folds my fingers shut. I look up again. "Don't cry anymore," he commands me, in a whisper, lifting my fist and pressing his lips to my fingers, unable to summon his usual harshness. I disobey immediately. *** end ***