Black Sky

Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade or any of the respective characters.

Warnings: Blood, a bit of gore, strong language, yaoi.

A/N: A new Beyblade story after... more than a year, I think. I am trying to get my enthusiasm back for the fandom so I can complete the chaptered stories I have going. Hopefully this will have the effect that I want.

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Yuriy lies flat on his stomach, keeping the binoculars levelled on the penthouse. The air is frigid, biting at his skin through his clothes and his breath fogs the lenses, the misty clouds obstructing his vision. With every minute that passes, he rubs one sleeve across the lenses. The action is automatic, mechanical because of the stiffness of his muscles. The sky above him is black, clear, with the crispness that only comes with the winter months.

When he hears the heavy crunch of boots on gravel behind him, he doesn't turn around. From the pacing of the steps, to the pitch of the crunching noise indicating the weight of the approaching person, to the faintest scent of tobacco, he knows exactly who it is. Without a word, Boris crouches down beside him and places one hand on his back, rubbing in slow circles. Yuriy leans appreciatively into the touch.

"What do you think?" he asks, wriggling closer to his partner and handing the binoculars to him.

The lights of the apartment are glaring, revealing every detail of the interior and the sordid behaviour of its occupants. Their target is surrounded by a small group of scantily clad prostitutes, all young boys none of who look more than fourteen years old. Their oiled skins and carefully painted faces glow invitingly under the bright lights, but Yuriy finds it more garish than seductive. This entire spectacle is a mockery, and he knows Boris would see it in the same light.

"Rutting like fucking animals," Boris returns softly. "The bastard deserves to die."

The contempt in his voice is clear, and Yuriy smiles, lowering the binoculars and pulling himself into a sitting position. He stretches, stifling a yawn. His lips twitch when he notices Boris' eyes flick down to his stomach where his shirt has hitched up. He smiles again, patient and chastising.

There will be plenty of time for that later, love.

His lover rolls his eyes as if he can hear exactly what Yuriy is thinking, which is not unlikely. "Not if you keep teasing," he murmurs.

Yuriy chuckles and licks his lips, leaning back to rest on his palms. The motion reveals even more smooth flesh, the downy trail of red disappearing below the waistband of his pants. "You should have more control," he retorts impishly.

"You should know better than to tempt me," comes the husky growl that is already warm at Yuriy's neck. "You know damn well that I have no inhibitions when it comes to you."

"I do. And I love it." I love you, he adds silently as Boris presses his mouth to his. He opens himself up without hesitation, sliding an arm around Boris to bring him closer, as if he can somehow drag him into himself. Their tongues press against each other without urgency, stroking and sliding at the languid pace that Yuriy finds almost as satisfying as the frantic and rough lovemaking they are frequently partial to. They savour each other with the confidence of lovers who believe they have many more years in which to talk, to laugh, to make love. They kill, yes, did many more dangerous things, but they are still young.

When Yuriy feels a hand slide under his shirt, when he feels his nipple harden in response to the calloused touch, he nips Boris's lip reprovingly. "We have work to do," he murmurs, even though he doesn't push his lover away.

Boris entangles one hand in the fur collar of Yuriy's jacket, dragging his face back for another kiss. "Let the bastard have his fun while we have ours. We can kill him after."

"I'm not letting you fuck me on some damn rooftop," Yuriy retorts, wriggling from under him and twisting away from searching hands. "It's too exposed. You want us both to get pneumonia? We kill him now."

Boris sighs, mumbling something under his breath as he runs his hands through his pale lavender hair. He reaches down to touch the rifle at his side, stroking the cool metal briefly. "I can get him from here easily."

The quicker the pig dies, the sooner he can get Yuriy home into the warmth of their bed. He cocks his hand, pointing to the penthouse. Bang, bang. One, two. Head and heart – just to make sure. Boris never misses a shot, but there is always that small margin for mistakes. It is so easy, so simple, just one squeeze of the trigger to end this spectacle.

"You can," Yuriy acknowledges, rummaging in the pack resting beside him.

His partner gives him a sideward glance, hearing the unspoken 'but'.

The redhead runs his thumb along the edge of the hunting knife, watching blood from the shallow cut bead on the jagged edge.

"But this one deserves hands-on attention, I think."

Boris recognises the familiar look in those blue eyes and nods slowly, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

Fucking can wait.

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Boris marvels at how easy it is to kill someone. There is a quick jerk of his arm, one swishing moment of his knife, a spray of blood, a gurgled cry, and then silence. Almost like an orgasm, he thinks, just as fleeting, only this death is permanent.

The boys are dead. Boris doesn't like it, doesn't even know if he actually cared in the end, but there is no choice. They've been told to leave none alive. They have to die, and they do it gracefully at least – of the five boys, three die with nothing more than a gurgling sigh. One, pretty with pouting lips that beg to be kissed, manages a hoarse shriek before his throat erupted in a crimson jet and his cry is abruptly cut off.

He glances over at Yuriy. The blue eyes are blank, his arm moves mechanically as it whirls and slashes gracefully. He had headed straight for their target -Ivan-something, Boris recalls from the profile they had been given- and the man tries to run, pushing a prostitute in the way to shield him. Yuriy drives the knife in under the boy's chin, ramming it straight into his brain and killing him instantly before flinging the body aside and leaping on Ivan like an animal. Ivan drops like a sack of bricks, landing heavily on his bulging stomach. He rolls over; trying to use his weight to throw Yuriy off, but the redhead already has two knives in hand – one for each of Ivan's hands. He's quick enough to impale each fleshy limb to the floor and stuff a wrinkled, bloodstained shirt into the gaping mouth before the bastard can scream.

"Taste it," Yuriy says softly. "Taste their blood. It's on your hands. You killed them long before we did. You see these kids?" he waves the knife, bloody flecks spattering against his jacket. "It's like you fucked the spirit right out of them."

Ivan shakes his head, beady tear-filled eyes flicking back and forth in a panic. The man straddling his chest tilts his head back, smiles beatifically and flattens his palm on the thrumming chest.

"Don't deny it, Ivan. It's your taste for young boys that's gotten you into this pile of shit. If you weren't a paedophile, you wouldn't have taken Alexei, and you wouldn't have pissed off Vladimir. It wasn't the smartest thing to do. He's not a very nice man, our Vlad, and he doesn't like to share – especially cute little boys like Alexei. He made us promise to take our time with you and make it hurt, didn't he, love?"

Ivan's eyes widen in realization of who sent two men, and then flick to the taller of the two, who's wiping his bloody dagger against a corpse as casually as a housewife wiping a butter knife clean. Boris catches his eye and smirks, running his tongue suggestively over his top lip.

Yuriy leans forward; letting soft wisps of hair brush the shaking man's temple almost tenderly. "Do you like what you see?" he continues conversationally. "My lover. He's beautiful, isn't he? A little rough around the edges maybe, but still beautiful."

Ivan is sobbing now, tears rolling freely down his round cheeks in fat drops.

"Or maybe he's too old for you. Or," he leans back slightly, pursing his lips when he meets the hard bulge poking up from beneath the tailored slacks. "Maybe just old enough. My, my. I think we have a masochist in our midst, Boris. He's in pain, but he still wants release."

"Do you know what we equate masochism to, Ivan?" Boris speaks for the first time. "Pleasure. Fun."

Yuriy laughs, a wicked throaty laugh. The big man starts tugging at the knives embedded in his palms, straining even though the tears only leaked out faster. Behind the gag, he whimpers. The redhead pats Ivan comfortingly on the cheek. "Christ, Ivan, grow a fucking backbone. If you stop blubbering, we might grant you one last request. I might even let you fuck me. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Bet you'd love to ram yourself into me, wouldn't you?"

Ivan squeezes his eyes shut and mumbled what sounds like "no".

"Liar." Yuriy reaches back and squeezes, and the man reacts instinctively, squirming his hips up into the soft leather grip. A pink tongue flicks out to swipe itself almost thoughtfully over his lip, and Yuriy murmurs, "Perhaps we'll give you a show before you exit the stage."

He glances up to where his lover is seated on the low table with one booted foot propped indolently on the pristine wood. Boris has a stiletto in hand, idly chipping away at the expensive woodwork with a bored expression on his face.

"Just kill him, Yuriy," he says lazily. "You can play your games later."

The look Yuriy gives him is of wide-eyed innocence. "But I've promised him a show, love."

"And I don't have the patience tonight, Yuriy."

His tone is apathetic, but a slight thread of impatience runs underneath it. Yuriy hears it and smiles, reaching behind him and pulling loose the band that held his hair. The shoulder-length mass falls in a swathe of bloody red across his neck to run partly down his back. He tilts his head, shadow falling across his jaw line.

"Boris," he whispered. "Come here."

The look in their eyes was the same, and Boris shakes his head, but strides forward. He jerks the redhead roughly into a standing position before crushing their lips together. Entwined in a tangled mess of limbs, the lavender-haired man almost drags Yuriy to the table.

Yuriy's theatrics always get on his nerves, but he can never resist an open invitation. In that respect he was weak-willed – the truth, if he remembered the bizarre and dangerous situations Yuriy has managed to manipulate him into over the years. Boris's smile disappears as he presses his lips to Yuriy's throat, tongue stroking his Adam's apple. His lover moans appreciatively, flushing all the way down to his chest. He continues to kiss him, fingers groping with practised ease at Yuriy's clothing until the redhead is naked from the waist up. He pauses; peering up at Yuriy though straggles of violet hair.

"Get on with it, Yuriy. Don't expect me to wait much longer."

Yuriy leans forward, nipping reprovingly at Boris's earlobe. "Don't rush me. It's not often I get to see you on your knees."

"Wasn't that yesterday?"

"As I said, not often enough."

Yuriy's wicked laugh is cut off by a low growl, and he can only manage a small squeak of protest as his belt is yanked off. As difficult as it is to ignore the attention Boris is lavishing on his neck and chest, Yuriy hasn't forgotten that he has a lesson to teach.

"Do you like to watch, Ivan? Those poor little boys lying there dead on the floor… do you have them fuck in front of you while you jerk off?"

Yuriy is breathing hard, eyes fixed on the sweating man impaled on the floor. He bit his lip as Boris sucked hard on one nipple, one hand already searching beneath the waistband of Yuriy's pants. He clutches at a handful of lavender hair, eyes smouldering with the passion that he felt for this man, burning with the exhilaration of killing.

"Do you like to watch them moan? Do you like to watch them cum on each other, do you like seeing semen trickle over their skin? You tell them to lick it off, don't you?" he hisses, hands clenching down harder on Boris's shoulders. "I know what kind of man you are; I know what pigs like you do to kids like these."

Ivan shakes his head frantically, a whimpering, muffled moan emanating from the gag. He is perspiring and crying so much that you can't tell the difference between sweat and tears.

Boris yanks Yuriy's pants down, sliding down so that his chin rests on his inner thigh. The only time he will ever willingly go down on his knees, and there is a price for that that Yuriy will be repaying later. The redhead licks his lips, saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth. He slides his finger across his mouth, sucking the digit into his mouth with a degree of frustration.

"Do it," he urges, the muscles of his thighs tensing.

Boris complies, sliding his jaw along Yuriy's sex, breathing in the musky scent as his sweat-slicked hand traversed the same path. His lover lets out a whine of appreciation, fisting a handful of hair as a wet mouth inched over him. Boris is a perfectionist, and he lets Yuriy appreciate the full extent of his skills.

For Ivan, minutes stretch into hours, and the smell of sex permeates the room with its musky perfume and for the two lovers, the scent thickens into a tangible mass, caressing their entwined bodies like silk. Yuriy is panting, thighs clenching around Boris' waist. The taller of the two enters him with practised ease, settles into a rhyme that is as familiar to him as a heartbeat. They rock together in waves that are a mixture of sweetness and roughness, a combination that never fails to leave them both aching, and they ignore the tempo of Ivan's stifled groans and sobs to claim their own. Orgasm is a moment that happens in a state of almost near silence, two faint gasps mingling together, before Boris buries his face in Yuriy's neck to muffle his groan as his partner's body tightens so unbearably around him, coaxing every single drop from him.

They finally relax, wilting in each other's grasps. Yuriy sits with his legs still wrapped around Boris's waist, red hair flowing freely over both shoulders. He is beautiful, divine and the fresh smears of semen on his chest only make him look more perfect. There is nothing dirty about this. He lifts both hands and cups Boris's face, kissing him deeply. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know," Boris replies, and slides the gun into Yuriy's hand.

He cocks it, smiles at the familiar sound, and the click is deafening above Ivan's thrumming heartbeat and panicked breathing. Both men, glowing with satisfaction and exertion from their lovemaking, look at the squirming heap on the floor with identical expressions of contempt.

"You should have known better than to take what didn't belong to you. Consider this your penance, Ivan."

The name drops mockingly from his lips as he pulls the trigger, slim wrist making the action appear almost careless, accidental, though the muscles in his hand are tightened with precision and intent.

The muffled scream is cut off by the single red hole in the middle of his forehead. Just in case, he remembers, and Yuriy puts another bullet in the man's heart. Then another in his lung – to make extra sure. He doesn't want to disappoint Vladimir. Their benefactor is most particular about failure; both Yuriy and Boris have the marks to show it.

Both assassins leave the building without incident after they've changed their bloodstained clothes –silent, fleeting; they were never there. Only the faintest of scents of the sex remains. Whatever evidence may have been left behind, Sergei will take care of it. He'll complain at having to clean up their 'disgusting little mess' as he often calls it, of course, Boris will not care. Enduring the blonde's rants are worth it for what he gets from his red-haired lover in those heated moments.

They walk hand in hand down the street, under the black sky, bags slung carelessly over their shoulders. Yuriy's cheeks are pink in the chilly night. They don't talk. They don't need to. When one of them does break the silence, it's Yuriy pointing to a coffee shop and announcing, "I think I'll pass out if I don't get caffeine into my bloodstream right now."

The normalcy of the action –strolling into the late-night coffee shop, sitting at a table for two and placing their orders– doesn't throw either of the pair. It's perfectly natural, though when they sip their steaming drinks, and the sight of a pink tongue lapping at white foam prompts memories to sneak in uninvited, images flash of limbs moving over sweating bodies, mouths meeting and alternating between languid strokes and violent thrusts. Ivan moaning somewhere in the space outside of themselves, bloody hands burning.

Yuriy reaches across the table, fingers stroking lightly on the back of Boris's hand. He smiles at his lover, eyes softened with affection. They could be any other ordinary couple in Moscow. Whatever tainted this night has already been pushed into the backs of their minds and locked away.

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END

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