SINS
Avaritia
The cigarette butt sparks as it hits the pavement. The tall man crushes the last smouldering remains with the tip of his shoe while exhaling a lung full of smoke, the wisps of white quickly dissipating in the autumn air.
Soubi leans back in his usual spot outside the school gates, idle hands itching to reach for another cigarette, but refraining after several outbursts from Ritsuka on the subject.
Soubi smiles at the thought of his irate sacrifice, tail puffed up in indignation, ears pulled back and a blush dusting his cheekbones. Ritsuka's shrill voice would lack any anger – there was only annoyance – as he calls Soubi a bad influence.
The blond man loves to hear his own name on Ritsuka's lips, to hear him say-
'Soubi-san!'
A curvaceous girl with blearing pink hair and similarly coloured ears and tail comes bounding through the school gates towards Soubi.
'Good afternoon, Yuiko,' he greets.
'Soubi-san,' she repeats eagerly, halting before the older man, 'Ritsuka-kun will be a little late. Teacher wanted to talk to him.'
Soubi nods, smiling at the girl, Ritsuka's friend, so, by extension, his.
Yuiko peers at the school entrance for a long moment, her face overcome with a calm tenderness that slips away as she turns back to Soubi and speaks again. 'I asked Ritsuka-kun to come to my house, my parents aren't home. Do you think Ritsuka-kun will say yes? Will you come too, Soubi-san?'
Soubi looks at the vivacious girl. Ritsuka's friend. His friend.
'Actually, I don't think Ritsuka has time today,' Soubi slips his hands into the pockets of his fur-trimmed coat, holding onto his packet of cigarettes without withdrawing it.
Yuiko's ears and tail sag and her smile falters, 'O-oh. Really?'
'I'm afraid so,' Soubi gives her an encouraging smile, 'Maybe next time.'
The corner where Yuiko disappears – settling for bringing along Yayoi – is empty for a several minutes when Ritsuka reaches the school gates.
'Hello, Ritsuka,'
Ritsuka's feline ears perk up, even as he frowns at Soubi and mutters 'hello,' before looking around.
'Where's Yuiko? I thought she wanted me to come over.'
Soubi places a hand between Ritsuka's protruding shoulder blades and begins to lead him away, not without some reluctance on Ritsuka's part.
'Maybe she forgot she asked,' Soubi offers, stepping a little closer to put his arm around Ritsuka's shoulder as they walk.
Ritsuka's perked ears tip back at an annoyed angle and Soubi dares to run a hand through his soft hair to soothe him.
'Yuiko is your friend,' he assures the teen.
Soubi doesn't want friends.
'Would you like to come to my place instead?'
Soubi wants Ritsuka.
Invidia
He can't look away from Soubi.
The stroke of Soubi's hand is careful, his movements delicate, practised. Another soft stroke.
Ritsuka shifts a little.
Soubi's eyes are attentive, but soft, almost unguarded as he focuses all his attention on that before him. His movements are fluent, the flick of his hand precise. Nothing out of place as he delivers another stroke.
Ritsuka is beginning to feel uncomfortably hot and he's sure he's blushing.
Soubi cocks his head ever so slightly and a strand of hair brushes against a high cheekbone, he doesn't pay it any heed.
Ritsuka's body moves on its own accord when Soubi looks away for a moment, turning off to the side.
He is across the room in two bounds and in Soubi's arms before the man turns back to the painting, fresh colour on his brush.
Soubi smiles warmly and wraps his free arm around Ritsuka, keeping the other aloft to ensure he doesn't stain his sacrifice.
Ritsuka, now embarrassed by his own actions, avoids looking at Soubi by twisting around and glancing at the unfinished painting; a large butterfly sketched over a backdrop of pale, washed out colours, only one of it's wings coloured a striking blue and rich purple.
'It's beautiful,' Ritsuka mutters jealously.
Ira
Voice mail message received at: 7:14 PM
Six seconds of silence followed by a click.
End of message.
Next message received at: 7:48 PM
'You said you'd always answer the phone. Liar.'
End of message.
Next message received at: 8:23 PM
'Soubi, where are you? You said you'd come and see me today and... Never mind, just forget it.'
End of message.
Next message received at 9:28 PM
'Why would you say you'd come if you're not planning to come? You shouldn't make promises you can't keep. That's still lying. How am I supposed to trust you? Don't bother coming.'
End of message.
Next message received at 9:40 PM
'Soubi! You better not be fighting alone! You promised you wouldn't fight alone! Pick up the phone!'
End of message.
Next message received at 10:02 PM
'Soubi... I just- I want to know- I just want to know if you're... Call me back.'
End of message.
Next message received at 10:11 PM
'Call me back when you get this! That's an order!'
End of message.
Soubi chuckles around his cigarette as he nears Ritsuka's house in a brisk stride and makes his way up to the teen's window
The curtains are drawn, preventing Soubi from enjoying the sight of his sacrifice, oblivious to his presence as he makes his homework or plays a video game or – and Soubi likes that best of all – stares wistfully at his cellphone.
Soubi doesn't bother wiping the smile off his face as he reaches for the sliding glass window. And finds it locked.
Fishing his cellphone from his pocket, Soubi presses speed-dial. He isn't surprised when it immediately goes to voicemail.
His fingers search for a cigarette as he waits for the tone, though he's fooling himself by thinking it's nicotine he is craving, picturing the angry blush and bristled tail of an incensed Ritsuka.
Beep.
Soubi smiles, 'So cruel, Ritsuka.'
Superbia
Ritsuka is hopelessly distracted.
He bends farther over his desk and determinedly keeps staring at the screen, fingers poised on the keyboard to type his two page essay. After twenty-six, no, twenty-seven minutes of looking at the screen almost unwaveringly, Ritsuka has only typed his name.
He blames Soubi for this.
Each quietly drawn breath and every rustle of clothing; Ritsuka can hear it all.
He tries to clear his mind, repeating the assignment to himself, as he has been doing for the past half hour. What combination of factors lead to the start of World War I?
A lighter clicks somewhere behind him and Ritsuka immediately pictures a cigarette being held by long, deceptively soft, fingers, almost as white as the rolled paper, the tip of the stick glowing orange as it is ignited with a crackle on the small flame.
Ritsuka mentally scolds himself. Focus!
There is the sound of cloth on cloth and in Ritsuka's mind he sees slender legs, one stretched out languidly, the other bent at the knee, supporting the hand holding a cigarette.
Homework. Essay.
The dry smell of smoke wafts his way, momentarily intensifying after every clearly audible exhale. Ritsuka can picture lips closing around the filter, making them stink reassuringly of tobacco when they-
Ritsuka stops himself, feeling warmth spreading on his face, down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He turns his head by a fraction, only enough to see a blurred, lanky shape from the corner of his eye.
This time, he can almost feel the pressure of arms wrapped around his shoulders or waist, protective – possessive? - and warm.
'Ritsuka,' Soubi's soft voice is dangerously inviting.
Ritsuka snaps his head back, he should have known. He considers ignoring the fighter sitting on his floor, back resting against the side of his bed, but even louder than his small movements is Soubi's expectant silence.
'What?' Ritsuka asks, turning to look over his shoulder, lower arms still planted firmly on the desk.
Soubi has a twinkle in his eyes that Ritsuka has come to associate with all sorts of embarrassing things when he answers;
'You seem distracted. Why don't you come sit with me for a while?'
Ritsuka's body very nearly obeys the soothing smile that accompanies Soubi's words, but he stiffly turns back to his desk, wondering why he is more aware of Soubi now that he's not looking at him.
'I-I can't,' he curses the quiver in his voice, the lack of conviction, 'I have homework.'
There's the thunderous sound of Soubi rising from his spot on the floor and Ritsuka's whole body goes tense.
'If you won't come to me,' Ritsuka hears one, two, three steps in his direction before two arms wrap around his shoulders and Soubi leans over Ritsuka to hug him from behind. Lips, stinking reassuringly of tobacco, graze his jawline, 'I'll come to you.'
Ritsuka's okay with that.
Luxuria
Ritsuka has given it many names: confusion, anger, discomfort, distrust. They all seemed lacking somehow. Until he learns a new word.
He learns the word in school, not really paying attention to it as the teacher offhandedly gives the definition.
But now, here, in Soubi's apartment, bright sun streaming onto the wooden floor of the sparingly furnished room, it makes sense.
It explains the look that creeps into Soubi's eyes before the sweet, fleeting kisses become deeper, turn more urgent. The way Soubi's arms tighten around him, almost to the point of pain, as if Soubi wants to pull Ritsuka inside, under his skin.
It also explains why Ritsuka feels the way he does when Soubi suddenly tears himself away, placid grey eyes darkened like a looming thunderstorm, and goes to the kitchen with the excuse to make tea.
It explains why Ritsuka can feel invisible fingers tickling the inside of his, suddenly too tight, skin. Or why Ritsuka can't help but notice the strip of milky white skin beneath the formfitting shirt as Soubi reaches for two cups from the kitchen shelf as the kettle begins to whistle.
Soubi uses words such as love and desire and bond, Ritsuka doesn't know about that. Things as confusion, anger, discomfort and distrust may still ring true, in some ways.
Now, though he will never, ever, tell Soubi, Ritsuka knows the right word for what he feels when Soubi presses close, kissing, nipping and – with a hungry moan – licking: lust.
Gula
Soubi can start salivating at the very thought. And he thinks about it every day. He craves the tastes on his pallet, the subtle smells surrounding him, the wonderful textures.
He is never sated, hopelessly addicted.
Soubi breathes in deeply, taking in the characteristic scent, and suppresses a moan of delight.
He restrains himself from tasting – not yet, not just yet! – and presses his mouth close, knowing he will be able to taste it on his lips later, when he is alone. And hungry.
His lips, pressed tightly together in the effort of self-control, caress the pure, creamy expanse, his breathing growing harsher with the mere thought of what he is about to do.
Soubi picks the perfect spot and licks.
This time, he does let out a moan, guttural, from the back of his throat, as he is greeted by the tang of sweaty skin.
He closes his eyes in feverish memorization as he runs his tongue across the skin before nipping at it, feeling the softness between his teeth, but never biting. He breathes in deeply through his nose, savouring, as the clean, soapy scent mixes with something else, musky and demanding, as Soubi laps and laves and feasts.
The warmth in his mouth has Soubi shuddering in ecstasy, all his senses reeling.
As Soubi's whole world, in this bedroom universe, reaches a fever pitch, he wishes it would never stop. Yet he wants – shamelessly craves – the final taste.
Soubi swallows eagerly.
He curls up around his sustenance, his beautiful banquet, his delicacy called Ritsuka.
Acedia
'It's getting late. I should go.'
Ritsuka doesn't move as he says it, splayed out comfortably on Soubi's double bed, on top of the dishevelled, cream coloured sheets.
Soubi, curled up around Ritsuka, face pressed to the nape of the teen's neck, makes a sound of acquiescence.
'I'll walk you home,' he murmurs, nuzzling closer before breathing a contented sigh.
One of Ritsuka's hands weaves through Soubi's hair, feeling the silk-spun strands tickle between his fingers as he rubs the pads on Soubi's scalp in non-patterns. Soubi perceptibly leans into the touch.
'It's almost my curfew. I should go,' Ritsuka repeats, wondering when he closed his eyes.
'Hmmm,' Soubi agrees in a drawling tone.
Silence falls, thick as a comfortable blanket and Soubi's whisper is almost lost amidst another sigh; 'I love you, Ritsuka.'
Ritsuka turns his head to the side, away from Soubi. The bed is soft to his cheek and the new position alleviates a slight cramp in his neck that he hadn't even noticed was there before. Soubi repositions himself, pressing closer, tangling their clad legs.
'Idiot,' Ritsuka admonishes softly, though, warm and relaxed and content, he doesn't remember why.
A/N: Please point out any and all spelling and/or grammar mistakes. Questions, critiques and constructive criticisms are very welcome!