Disclaimer: I do not own X/1999 or Tokyo Babylon.
Author's Thanks: To Angelike Riddle from (Thank you! Gosh, I never had anything of mine rated 'poetic' . ), LadyoftheBlackWings from (Eerie as it should be, thank you!), Kakyou-chan from (Thank you! I don't know if Subaru didn't really figure it out. I think he thinks he beat himself off during a particularly hot dream or something), to AVARICE from to the Anon. reviewer from Clampesque (I'm sorry but this fic is meant to make people cry, it's bittersweet that way), to Whitesakura my precioussss(s) who commented on my Lj (Thank you darling, this one isn't S/S but I still hope you'll like it), to Menthee from the SeixSub community (Thank you and for that beta-ing correction!) and to Anavi from the SeixSub community (I have an experience with ghost sex writing from my Randall & Hopkirk days so yeah, it can be hot!)
And many, many thanks to my beta, Cait.
Author's Notes: Y'all should go and listen to some Beatles, satisfaction guaranteed! Also, I'm in love with my new Windows Professional 2003 Office translator –glomps-.
Succubus
Fire burnt in Kamui since his life began, since he could remember himself.
The fire of life, of love, of kicking and screaming and begging to go out and play with the Monou's.
When he moved out to Okinawa the fire stared at the new city and blinked. What the hell! Where's Fuma! Where's Kotori! Where's aunty Saya, Uncle Kyogo!
With a bitter farewell's pain the fire twisted, fed into a new mutated and powerful heat by the alienation of the new kids around Kamui. The fire became that of a raging wounded animal fighting off its attackers.
Kamui fought and kicked and screamed and used his newly found powers so much he got into enough trouble to ground him for a year. Which actually happened.
Tohru was very ashamed of her son's behavior. She loved him still and she knew him so she knew the source of his pain; which made her happy. Kamui's ongoing pain meant that he still remembered the Monou's and remembering them meant they were special to him. If he has a special person, then he is bound to follow the path she wished for him.
So Tohru did nothing to quench the fire within her son; she only punished him when the fire licked at the wrong person.
Six years later and the fire's in Tokyo. New pains feeding it into a roaring, bloating, exploding, snarling flame.
At the peak of 1999 the fire was quenched forever. A sword through the heart, and the boy who burnt was dead.
Floating up heavenwards, Kamui looked down at the person he suffered and fought for all his life, and realized what was about to happen to him.
Fuma was himself again, holding his palm to his chest, his eyes adrift, his lips mouthing Kamui's last words.
The heart of a young boy broke like a glass earth. A scream shook the heavens before the boy reached them.
Kamui took a single look at the pearly gates and shook his head. With eyes brimful of tears he refused heavenly tranquility. He said "No!" to the only chance he'll ever get for blissful peace; of sleep and rest for his tormented soul.
Fuma holding a hand to his chest.
Fuma repeating what he said, thinking about it.
Fuma, all alone in this world so cruel and lonely to him.
Who does Fuma have now?
Who will wait for him at home with a hot dinner as he returns from a basketball game? Who will take his jacket off and hand him his slippers? Who will sit him down to a cup of tea while the soup is reheating?
Who will ask him, "How was your day darling? How was school? How was work? Are you tired" Who will give him a foot massage or a shoulder rub as the dishes soak up soapy water in the sink?
Who will slip Fuma's shirt off with a seductive look? Who will stick his tongue out playfully as he drags Fuma down the corridors to their bedroom? Who will make sweet passionate love to Fuma on the end of a hard day's work?
Who will lie down under Fuma's panting sweaty body and treasure the afterglow? Who will ignore Fuma's heavy body and cherish the feel of naked flesh on naked flesh? Who will hold Fuma tightly in his sleep and beg him, "Please don't go away again, never again, please stay with me Fuma….ple-he-he-se?"
Fuck all this destiny crap! Kamui's fifteen, goddamnit. He turned sixteen this fucking year and what did he ever do to live up to it!
Not even one kiss! A kiss, that's all he asked. He had his chance but he blew it; the Dragon reared his ugly head, it wasn't Fuma he would be kissing. After that it was far too late.
He turned his back as Heaven's arms reached out to him. "Come to us," they begged, "Join us, you've earned your rest," but Kamui shook them off and fell down; fell to his Fuma.
Even if you are reviled and hated for it?
"Yes."
Even if your life becomes a hell?
"Yeah."
Even if no one understands the path you've taken, or respects your heart's true wish…?
"….Yeah."
It is time to create the future he wants.
Saya was dead. Mother was dead.
Kyogo was dead; Kotori too.
Even Tokiko was dead.
Who is left behind for Fuma?
Smiling happily, Kamui descended until he was able to see it clearly; the light in a remote suburban shrine. A light at the Monou estate. A light in Fuma's window.
"Fuma! I'm here! I'm here! See me! Fuma, I'm back, I'm not dead, Fuma!"
But Fuma cannot hear him; Fuma is snoozing.
He is sitting in his abandoned home's living room; his homework fanned out before him on the short stubby living room table.
His arms are folded on the study books and notebooks, a pen sticking out from under his elbow like the crushed body of an earthquake's victim.
His head is laid sideways on his left arm, his eyes are closed. His breathing is slow and steady, he is asleep.
Clamp Campus' ridiculous logo beams, "Sweet dreams Fuma!" at the youth who has collapsed on the English book bearing the tactless blowfish.
The notebook under his face is damp and the kanji are blurred as harsh ink gives in to uncontrolled emotions.
Kamui lands on the smooth wooden floor and floats to Fuma's side. No one welcomed Fuma after a school's day, no one made him a hot meal, no one asked him how he was and rubbed his shoulders.
Kamui wraps ghastly thin arms around broad real shoulders; placing pale tiny scarred palms atop large broad tanned ones and closes his eyes.
Ghosts can't sleep; they can never rest. They can only dissolve and materialize again.
For now Kamui stays with Fuma. He will wait for the young man to wake up into the warmest surprise he ever had, into a loving embrace.
Kamui has yet to fully understand what he has become.
Fuma wakes up. He blinks away the last cobwebs of a sleep too short to sate insomnia's drawbacks. He stares around him at the large vacant hall. Loneliness gapes at him, exposing sharp fangs about to eat his soul away.
Once upon a time Kyogo ordered the common rooms of this house to be made big; he had hoped to have more children than just Fuma and Kotori. Then he insisted the rooms weren't too big for only two children; there's room to run rampant and play in, to have large family dinners with the Shiro's, to throw a birthday party with Kotori and Fuma's classmates.
Now the empty large house serves nothing but to remind Fuma of all that happiness and domestic bliss gone forever. Great, thanks a lot, dad!
Fuma drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to the kitchen, legs heavy and uncooperative. Swooping through the kitchen he makes himself half a dinner, pours himself a soft drink he allowed himself to buy since no one's here to sulk at how he's going to ruin his teeth and health with all that excess sugar and caffeine.
He plops down to a kitchen chair and eats his meal slowly. He thinks of his homework and frowns; a problem in math is slowly taking shape in his mind's eye. The problem is solved, followed by the next and the next.
Then there's nothing anymore and Fuma's left alone with the void.
He thinks of his history homework and tries to remember the march of a band of samurai against the emperor of the time. He fails and the void leaks into his mind again.
His meal is over; he pushes the plate away from him.
It's a bad habit really, pushing his finished plate away. Once upon a time it was Kotori or mother who would take that as a hint to clear the plate from the table and bring in the next course.
Now it's only him who's left here, but the habit lingers on like a stubborn child.
Fuma cannot get up. His body is heavy and weary, his head swirls inside. Tears break out like a wild tide, pouring down his cheeks and onto the table underneath him with no control.
He places his elbow on the table and his palm on his face and bursts into violent sobs.
The ghost of Kamui stares at him from his stand in the living room. His own heart is broken; he is crying too.
Since the moment Fuma opened his eyes Kamui was screaming at him that "I'm here! Fuma, I'm home! I'm alive! I'm alright! We're together again!" but Fuma couldn't hear him.
A sword through the heart is just not something you can live through, Kamui realized, and now Fuma really has no one in the world to be there for him.
Kamui nearly dissolves into the crushing depression settling down on him. Soon he will become one of the types of ghosts who roam the world without a shape, a face or a name, gaping and wailing as they spook people with their ungraspable grief.
Fuma leaves for the bathroom and passes right through Kamui's astral body. Spinning on his invisible heels, Kamui follows his loved one with his eyes.
He follows Fuma to the bathroom, where he watches the man urinate. Being a ghost and invisible has its bright sides, as Kamui walks right up to Fuma and stares down at the limb held out above the toilet seat.
Kamui never saw this side of Fuma (not the urinating side, the not-covered-in-clothes side), not even when they were children. He feels heat rising in his cheeks and places his palms there; it's really hot!
Fuma has left the toilet by now. Kamui is left behind to ponder as the lavatory cistern fills itself with merry tunes of fulfillment.
Kamui smiles, feeling his chest now. The fire is back; the fire of passion, of love and devotion.
He vowed to protect Fuma forever, even after 1999. Well Fuma's in danger now isn't he? Sadness and loneliness hangs over Fuma's head, swinging down on him like an Edgar Allen Poe pendulum. Who will keep him from caving into anguish's grabbing arms if not his Kamui?
Waiting patiently, Kamui follows Fuma around his home as he folds up his school papers and prepares for sleep.
Fuma sleeps again. He is sprawled out on his bed as if he landed there from a long fall. His legs are cast each to their own sides, his right arms is placed away from his body dangling down from the wrist, palm up, above the floor beyond the beds edge.
The left arm is laid on Fuma's face, covering his eyes. His palm long ago stopped wiping away the tears which lulled him down to sleep.
His broad muscular chest rises up and down in a steady rhythm of slumber, the belly beyond it faintly moving.
Once this torso bore muscles hard as stone and strong as iron. Now basketball is beyond Fuma's interests; his limbs grow too weak to carry his burden of mourn, so he plays no more. A layer of fat slowly covers muscles once taut and all-powerful.
Kamui kneels at the edge of the bed within the arch Fuma's feet drew between them. He looks down at his Fuma and smiles. His Fuma and his alone, no one else's. Death twisted the fire into a new type of heat and the fire twisted the ghastly body into a new shape; new abilities.
A tiny scarred palm reaches out and caresses Fuma's bare chest. Past a short forest of scattered curly hairs, past a long line of denser curls defining the middle of Fuma's torso, deep into the thick forest at the man's crotch.
Fuma twitches and moans in his sleep. It is not a moan of pleasure. It's a moan of impatience; of suppressed anger. He knows his body's needs now by heart and the time when they arise. He is restless and angry, impatient at his member's annoying tactless demands.
Kamui arches his eyebrows and shrugs; Fuma's misunderstanding it all but what the heck? He is hardening and that's what Kamui cares about. The joy of watching the man he loves rise at his presence; registering his existence and attention.
Kamui bends down and runs the tip of his tongue on the tip of Fuma. Just a small lick to make Fuma twitch again.
Fuma dreams of Kamui and his eyes flutter open. The arm, still on his face, obscures Kamui from Fuma's new state of consciousness.
Sniggering sweetly, Kamui crawls closer to Fuma; his shoulder blades dancing up and down in a distinct feline motion.
He buries his face in Fuma's abdomen, rubbing his cheeks against tense skin and the forest's edge. He hums to himself and casts his body onto Fuma's, arms splayed forward to arch up and circle Fuma's sleeping head. He joins fingers above the middle of Fuma's head and looks down at the half hidden face.
Kamui bows his head and kisses Fuma deeply, breathing in the scent of masculine musk and sheets slept in for many nights. He inhales Fuma's aftershave and the smell of his freshly shaved face, savoring the excited tingles across his body and the joy of his lover's obvious masculinity. He laps at the lips and digs his astral tongue into the mouth.
The mouth is opening and a flesh-made tongue laps back into his mouth, twisting erotically. Long, powerful arms encircle a space too big to contain Kamui's real body within it. It does contain Kamui, along with too much empty air, so Kamui's satisfied.
Contact has been made and Fuma is not alone anymore.
Soft crimson eyes open up and look at Kamui's forehead. They think they're looking into Kamui's eyes but they're mistaken. Never mind, it's the thought that counts.
Kamui digs into the hot mouth again, needy and burning now, thirsty for more from his man.
Heat pours all over his mouth, circling his tongue, drawing lines on his lips and lapping at his bottom lip. Fuma wraps his arms tighter as patterns of heat on his body makes the presence in his room's identity clear. He kisses deeper, better, thirsty for the boy as well.
Restless, Kamui snaps his body up. He saddles Fuma, running frantic invisible palms all across the chest he so longed to explore.
Fondling up air like a blind man, Fuma finds the thighs he wanted to grab and squeeze with passion from the beginning of this damned year. Hot thick air makes it obvious to him where Kamui is, his palms run along the body they drove a sword through not three months ago.
The ghost is hungry. The ghost is thirsty, lustful and impatient. It leans forward and bites down on Fuma's left nipple, sucking powerfully as much as a ghost of his status can.
His lover hisses and grabs at hot air behinds, grinding the fire onto his swollen crotch.
The ghost moans a throaty "Oahhh" and bites down again. This time he rocks his body along the burning flesh shaft, he builds a frantic rhythm sure to have sent his flesh body's thighs into a good few day's cramp.
Kamui's flesh body is lying under Kotori's tree, under a tombstone now and slowly rots away. For now, Kamui will ride his lover as much as the both of them can keep up the activity.
Fuma's palm rises, searching to the heat again. Up, up, up, index and middle finger prodding the air looking for something to penetrate, somewhere to stay.
The ghost wraps its mouth around the fingers and sucks, savoring the sound of the pleased, "Mmm," below him. He does not drop the fingers as he moans, grabbing his invisible manhood and rubbing it against Fuma's hardness.
Fuma's other palm shoots to his body to snatch himself from the hot thick tendril wrapping him. He holds himself upright, bucking his hips in heavenwards thrusts.
Refusing to let go of the fingers in his unearthly mouth, Kamui abides his loved one's wishes and inserts the pulsing member into himself.
Ah, but he did it too quickly, too rashly, without thought or consideration to himself. He wanted that amazing moment of penetration to be slower, more flowing, more meaningful. Instead, he simply slammed the other man into himself and drew in as deep as the other man could. Foolish.
To compensate this mistake Kamui moves up and down slowly. Very slowly. Studying every millimeter of manhood, every curve and every juncture of arteries and veins until he would be able to draw them with his finger in the air, the soft and sensitive line defining the head from the shaft. With his tongue he studies the grooves of Fuma's fingerprints.
This is what the ancient men who wrote the western bible meant when they called making love, 'knowing'.
Fuma grabs hot air thighs and digs himself deep into that fiery heat around him, stabbing powerfully into ghastly flesh.
The ghost bites into the fingers and immediately licks them better, sucking into them as if they were the member within him. He gives in and speeds up his moves.
But Fuma's in control now, Fuma's chasing down what good manners and six years of solitude deprived him of, what the Dragon tried to claim his own. No one will stop him from going at it in the rhythm he dictates, the moves he controls; he won't allow it!
Ah, giving in to your man, giving your man what he needs, serving your man's every need. Let your man thrust deep into you as fast and hard as he wishes, give into him as much as you can, give him everything. Kamui bursts into maddened laughter, his body bouncing up and down frantically.
Fuma draws deep husky breaths, hitching up whenever a new peak of pleasure is scaled. He reaches up to grasp the hot thin waist, pushing it down with every thrust of his.
He claws at the heat-made body and thrusts harder. At first he is only mouthing it, with lips wet and dripping, then he sounds the name of his loved on and the ghost above him, "Kamui, Kamui, KamuiKamuiKamuiKamuiKamuiKamui, oh Kamui!"
Scorching tendrils scald Fuma's chest, burning eight crescents into Fuma's flesh, two inverted crescents burn down a little lower on the bare skin. Fire licks at the sweat-soaked sheets in two lines at the sides of Fuma's hips.
The fingers slip out of the ghost's mouth as he arches his back backwards and bounces his body again in one last dance into the purest heat, into the brightest light. He fulfilled another secret deep wish.
The ghost melts onto the man on the bed, his astral body exhausted and powerless. It is over.
Suddenly in panic, Fuma leaps to sit up on his bed, searching the air around him with frantic blind hands. He blinks around his dark room; the air around him cool and calm again.
Empty is the room around him. Empty and lonely.
"Kamui?...Kamui where are you?...K-Kamui?" the only heat he feels now are the lines his tears draw on his cheeks.
"Where are you?...Kamui……I miss you……Kamui?"
No more.
It is time for the soul of a boy, so long tortured and punished for sins not his, to come home to the light and bliss of heaven.
One last, "No," he says as he faces the angels. "No, I wish not to stay up here, here is for those who have nothing to linger on for. I still have something to do."
So, they send him back down to the land of the living in a new shape with a new name.
Along with him comes the fire, to remind his soul of what it's off to achieve, why it refused the eternal rest.
Maybe this time he will do good; maybe this time he'll live it up to the fullest.
This time he'll find his way to his Fuma and be more than just a one night lump of heat and astral projection.
So Fuma won't be alone anymore; so Fuma will be happy and laughing again.
To be with Fuma; his Fuma.
(end)