Disclaimer: Pandora Hearts and all associated with it does not belong to me. I didn't build this sandbox, I'm only playing in it.

Warnings: Slash, semi-explicit sex between to consenting adult males, mentions of blood and pain and getting off on the above, erm...... hate!sex. I think that's it.

It's always like this.

A tall blond walks through the hallways of Pandora, before a hand shoots out from the doorway to one of a hundred unoccupied guest rooms, dragging him in. The door slams shut as he's shoved roughly against it, the hallway outside empty of any who might have seen. Inside, the room is dark, but the blond recognizes the arms holding him still, the face smirking at him. Vincent would recognize Break anywhere.

Break chuckles as he presses closer against his prey, the laughter hissing against Vincent's ear. Arms against his chest keep him in place as Break turns his head, lips grazing against his jaw line as he buries his face in Vincent's neck. Hands tighten in the fabric of his clothes as Break speaks into his neck, pressing the words against his skin. He's saying things like "Hate you. Going to catch you. Kill you with my own hands, you filthy rat," but it sounds more like, "Want you. Need you. I love you but I hate you so much I don't understand, I just couldn't stay away."

But Vincent can't stand hearing it, so he laughs himself, spits out, "A liar, Mister Mad Hatter. You're a dirty hypocrite," by which he means, "Shut up and fuck me already". Then he pulls on that silver-white hair, dragging that sweet- literally, he thinks Break's been filching desserts from the kitchens again- mouth up to his to shut up him up. As usual, it works.

It's always like this.

They step across the room, together but never in sync, hands grasping and pulling and tugging, demanding, more, now, as they pant against each other's mouths. Sometimes tongues meet, sometimes teeth, always ungraceful, but it doesn't matter as they're too impatient too care. Vincent finally manages to divest Break of his outer clothes as he's pushed against the edge of the bed. His knees buckle and he sits there, before slowly backing further onto it, dragging Break with him. He growls with frustration as Break finally manages to yank his jacket over his head, tossing it aside. Vincent leans back on the heels of his hands, legs spread, and Break kneels on the bed between them.

Finally, they manage to get rid of the clothing, and Break has pushed Vincent down, hovering over him, one hand on his bare shoulder; pausing for a split second to drink in the sight beneath him before plunging down. He doesn't stop to ask "How do you want?"; partly because, after all these times, he knows; partly because there are never any words between them, not here, not like this. He simply rakes his fingers down Vincent's skin, takes what he wants, expects Vincent to demand and take in his turn.

A shudder runs through Vincent, to have the Hatter over him, pressing him against the sheets. He reaches his own hands up to touch Break's chest himself; suppressing the part of him that wants to roll them over, pull out the scissors, cut that pale, perfect skin until Break is screaming, lick up that sweet blood and suck on the wounds until the Hatter's squirming with new shocks of pain and begging for more- at the thought, he arches up, a soundless whimper on his lips as he scrabbles to bring Break closer. He doesn't do what he wants to, though, because as heady as the Hatter's blood might be, merely sharing a bed, twisting together in the sheets like this, is addicting enough.

They try, sometimes, to break the habit, but the never can. As much as they dance around each other by daylight, the more interesting game happens here, in the dark, in the sheets, grasping and fumbling and crying and racing to completion. Vincent trying not to picture Break all covered in blood, Break gripping Vincent's hips hard enough to create new bruises over faded ones and trying not to enjoy hurting him. As they fall over the edge together, they've both failed.

It's always like this.

They stay together for a moment, breathing harsh and too loud in the room, before Vincent unhooks his legs from around Break's waist, and Break gently pushes his hips away, lifting Vincent off of him. They still don't speak, and their matching red right eyes don't meet. They quietly pick up their clothing, shrug into it again, ignore the mess on the bed because someone else will clean it up.

And this is why it always happens here, in a nondescript room at Pandora, a room that's replaceable, forgettable, not unique in anyway. Not one of their rooms- never one of theirs. They can never be that familiar with each other. It would be wrong. It would be too dangerous, the temptation to stay. And…. it doesn't feel like being kicked out of bed, if they both have to leave.

As always, Break leaves first, without a word. Vincent listens to the door opening and closing as he fixes his hair. For a few minutes, he waits, even though he's well aware this is a largely empty wing and the coast is clear, stands in the empty room, still silent. It'll be a few more weeks before they meet like this again, both trying to break the habit, stop the dependency, the addiction. But sooner rather than later, they'll give in again, and wind up in another nondescript room exactly like this one, clothes scattered on the floor, fucking on the bed like animals because they're never- never, making love.

Vincent looks at the bed, the tangled, sticky mess of sheets. He takes a deep breath, smelling the stale air that was in the room, overlaid now by the stink of sex. He walks to the door, presses a hand against the cool wood of it for a moment. It is still silent. He opens the door and steps out, quietly closing it behind him before walking away on his previous path down the hallway.

It's always like this.