drowning in egypt
The weather's a little too cold to be out here without a jacket, especially since Kamui tends to get colder than most. Something to do with thin skin or poor blood circulation. Sorata will probably chew him out when he goes inside with blue lips and red-white hands, but right now he doesn't have to deal with the monk, deal with anything, which is why he comes here.
It wasn't the reason he had started this ritual of visiting Kotori's tree, but that's what it has evolved into over time. At first it was about grief and guilt, paying respects to someone he should have shown them to while she was still alive. He would stand with his eyes closed and one hand pressed against the bark like an anchor, and think about how it had nearly killed him when she called him Kamui-chan when he first came back, like nothing had changed; and she hadn't changed: still sweet and lovely and kind. And then it had nearly killed him again when she started calling him Shirou-kun when she became mindful of the barriers he had erected even though she didn't understand them and tried her best to breach them.
Kotori had never changed, not really, so he goes to this place sometimes when he can no longer bear how everything else has changed so terribly.
Wind shakes the branches of the tree, and reddened leaves skirl down around him; he shivers a little, tucking his arms around himself. He should go inside. And so, naturally, he sits down instead, tucking himself in between two roots of the tree. Hell with it: if anybody wants him today, they're going to have to come and find him. The thought gives him a certain unhappy satisfaction.
There have been days when he's come here for more than just a refuge, searching for answers or reassurances or any number of other things he shouldn't be able to find in the arms of just a tree. On those occasions, more often than not, the answer he's been given is that of birds; Kotori's namesake and her companions in life, rustling out of the leaves to him as if to greet him. In his optimistic moments, he's let himself believe that they're a sign, of forgiveness or affection or encouragement, though he doesn't know why he should receive such a thing. It's not as if he's managed to keep any of his promises.
He doesn't like to think of Fuuma here. It seems wrong, somehow. But sometimes he does, just the same.
He has been thinking of Fuuma more and more since Subaru vanished -- which doesn't make any particular kind of sense -- thinking about how the older boy's eyes were always half-lidded when he looked at Kamui, heavy with something Kamui still doesn't really understand although he misses it. He remembers all the promises Fuuma had made with every intention of keeping, and with the distance between now and then he begins to understand that Fuuma had made him promises that Kamui had never even known about. But things change. People leave even if they had promised not to, even if they had never given him a promise of any kind.
The wind is cold, and Kamui hugs himself and shivers. He can count the number of people who have held him close enough to feel their warmth on one hand and most of them had only done it once or twice: his mother, Kotori, Fuuma and, in a way, Subaru.Fuuma's had felt the most unique at the time. Fuuma had smelled like sweat and aftershave, so overpoweringly masculine and heartbreakingly normal. Kamui could have gravitated to that normality and comfort like it was a sun, and now he tries not to think about whether it would it would have been better or worse if he had.
Because of course, now that smell has become part of other things, things that he wouldn't dare call normal, even if they have become horribly familiar. Just another piece of Fuuma's comfort -- his safety -- that's been ripped away from Kamui and twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable. He can't think of the way Fuuma smells without thinking of that too-calm, empty half-smile, and of teeth and warm breath on his throat...
Kamui shivers again, and this time it isn't from cold. He shouldn't be thinking of this now.
Fuuma always touched him a little more than he was comfortable with, a little more than seemed safe. It wasn't on purpose, though, he doesn't think; it was as if Fuuma couldn't help himself. And then... well, afterward, it seemed like he certainly could help himself, and just didn't. Sometimes it seemed like everything this new, awful Fuuma did was a parody of the Fuuma Kamui had cared for, a cruel joke at his host's expense. It should incur Kamui's hatred, but it doesn't. It can't.
Subaru had done that too -- touched him as if he couldn't control the impulse, as if it went against his better judgment. A hand would cup his cheek or dart out to fix his tie, pulling him close enough to smell cigarette and incense and what it must smell like on mountain tops in the country where you can see for miles around. And then it would be gone again, just as quickly, and Subaru would act embarrassed that it had happened at all. Kamui's stomach would ache for a few hours afterwards.
His stomach hurts now, actually, and he absently rubs circles on his abdomen.
It's funny how when he misses Fuuma he misses the anchor that, for a short time, helped him not be dragged into the madness his life would become. And when he misses Subaru he misses the assurance of having someone who knows about all the strangeness and stands by his side as he sails through it. And he misses both their smiles, different from each other but alive and warm with the same concern, affection...
It really is stupid to be here, brooding like this, when all there is and all there will be is cold.
He closes his eyes with a sigh, hand resting on his belly, fingers stretching and curling. Thinking about Subaru hurts now, anyway; after Subaru's been gone so long, the need to see him again is almost as much physical as it is emotional. To see his smile, the one that only Kamui ever saw, as if it were something that belonged to the boy alone... It's like there's a hollow in the middle of him, something that cries out Subaru and aches for him now like Kamui's lungs ache when he holds his breath for too long.
He finds himself wondering if that's what other people would call love: just an addiction to somebody else, a need that doesn't go away when its object does. But that doesn't bear thinking about. It's too awful, and too possible.
He would miss Fuuma that way, too -- if it weren't that he can still see Fuuma, from time to time, even if it is only the physical shell of what Fuuma used to be. Sometimes even that will do, just for a moment's glimpse. But even so, the only thing that keeps the craving back is the dreams.
They've been getting more and more vivid the longer Subaru has been away. Some of them are focused and clear: he can remember the setting and what happened and the order of events and every line of conversation. Sometimes everything is blurred and there is only the sensation of safety and love, impressions of light or dark, tattered glimpses of smiling eyes and warm hands. The difference doesn't matter, though, since he wakes up from both kinds of dreams, and usually wakes up hard.
Suddenly Kamui is angry at himself the way he assumes everyone else must be secretly frustrated by him. He is paralyzed and scared and self-absorbed, and anyway what right did he ever have to Fuuma's embraces and Subaru's smiles? It's not like either of them had ever owed him anything.
The anger comes with an adrenaline rush, which is good because he's so tired otherwise, an exhaustion that sinks into his bones until he can't even recognize that it's there unless granted a reprieve from it. He lets his hand drift downward and settle lightly on his crotch, because he is alone and not really aware of what he's doing and it's been that kind of afternoon.
Maybe he deserves what he's gotten. It's not the first time he's had the thought, and he suspects it won't be the last. Maybe his injuries at Fuuma's hands are what he deserves for failing to protect Kotori, and to protect Fuuma; maybe the loss of Subaru's comfort is what he deserves for letting himself forget his mistakes in the peace the onmyouji brought. Maybe this whole grotesque sea of insanity is only what he should expect for the boy who couldn't save his mother, couldn't save his friends, couldn't save himself. So what right does he have?
He keeps his eyes closed. If he can't see, he won't have to think about what he's doing.
Warmth presses back against his hand, and he uncurls his other arm from around himself, lifting his free hand to rest against his lips. The feeling of breath on his fingers reminds him of Fuuma, and the feeling of lips underneath them makes him think of Subaru. Everything in the world seems to be conspiring to hurt him. He's not surprised. It usually does.
The sound of a zipper is much louder than it has any right to be. It almost stops Kamui, brings him back to where he is and what he is about to do, but not quite. The boy is still far away, safe inside a bubble of nostalgia and separated from the rest of the world. The hand tucked into the fly of his boxers is not his own. He isn't responsible for what it does; he is watching this scene from high above his head.
The hand just hovers there for a minute, letting him fully absorb the prospect of the warmth almost but not quite touching his growing erection. He licks the pads of the fingers against his lips and presses them slightly harder to his mouth. They feel warm, damp, soft, gentle. They are trembling slightly.
The nausea is gone, consumed by a blaze that is hot and tight and almost painful, but good. Very good.
There -- contact. A first delicate brush followed inevitably by a full caress, a warmth that completely encircles him. He makes a small sound in his throat, trying to pin down the illusory owner of that hand behind his eyes: the only place he can see either of them anymore. His fingertips press between his lips, and he sucks on one, hard. His skin tastes like salt, and the air doesn't feel cool anymore.
One stroke leads helplessly to another, and then another. After a moment, they find a rhythm, and then it isn't so hard to keep going anymore. His finger pulls out of his mouth, and his hand slides up to cover his face, thumb on his cheekbone, fingertips on his brow. Without thinking about it, he lets his mouth open, first kissing wetly and then dragging his tongue along the scar that pierces his palm. The intensity makes him gasp slightly.
The thumb strokes his cheek in response, slow and soothing at first but then harder and more erratically, matching the rhythm being set by the other hand. Kamui tries not to cry out, fails, arches his back until his shoulders grind against the rough bark of the tree. This different source of friction isn't arousing, exactly, but he whimpers at the touch on a part of his body that was not being touched before.
The hand keeps rubbing harder and faster, harder and faster, almost frantic now. This is too good, too fast, he doesn't want it to be over just yet; and the hand complies by slowing down. Fingertips at his cheek brush lightly down, cover his lips for a moment, then abandon his face to trail their way down his neck and collarbone, settling on the conclave of his ribcage to stroke the softer skin there. Kamui whimpers again, louder now, out of relief or frustration or something, and his left leg spasms, kicking the ground.
He can't control anything, but that's all right here. This is as close as he can get to forgetting.
A fingernail finds his nipple easily, even through his shirt, and flicks across it; more than hard enough to register, not hard enough to hurt. A muscle in his thigh jumps again, maybe in response. The other hand, the one struggling to go slow, traces a thumb around the head of his cock, and he hisses a little. His body always surprises him, with pleasure and with pain. His head feels swimmy, kind of, like he's about to pass out. He's not sure why he bothers to notice.
Images flicker in the darkness he's brought down on himself, fragments of memory, edited carefully for the things he doesn't quite want to think about just now. Subaru's smile; Fuuma's embrace. Half a dream, murky now, a few still photographs that can't quite connect with each other. And things that are less comforting, but with an odd danger to them that isn't all unpleasant: things like arms around his chest, holding him tightly to a warm body behind him, breath on his ear that made him shiver, carrying words he didn't understand -- not then.
The hand stroking him has found some speed again all on its own, and now he doesn't want to stop it. There's an aching in him he can't ignore, something that needs to be satisfied, and quickly.
Fingers slide down to the base of his erection, squeeze, then trace back up to the tip, nails scoring down slightly. Kamui can't breathe for a moment and then he is breathing too much, in shallow, erratic bursts. The hand squeezing his nipple suddenly belongs to him again and he gropes blindly at the trunk of the tree, trying to brace himself.
Kamui moans, squeezing his eyes shut tight because they might open otherwise. This feels good in a way things shouldn't feel good -- tense and tight and sort of gritty. The hand at his cock is pumping intently now, almost greedy for his approaching orgasm. He wants to come -- oh god, does he want to -- but part of him is crying out frantically that, no, don't, then this will be over, and Kamui will be alone again.
But all he can do is writhe, phantom voices whispering in his ear, and moan things that could almost be words, almost be names.
Heat washes out from the center of him, spreading over him, like his body's sending up a flare as it passes the point of no return. He doesn't notice, he doesn't notice anything; he's caught up in the small, wonderful world behind his closed eyelids. Nothing lives there except him (about to come) and the owner (still unidentified) of the hand (working as fast as it can now) that... that...
That belongs to him, really, and always has.
What is he doing? Here, of all places?
His eyes snap open at the last second, and as the orgasm shudders through him he is looking up through the speckled ceiling of leaves, at the blank gray sky. His gaze is fixed and hopeless.
When the last aftershock is over, Kamui remains prone. His body is limp -- not out of relaxation; he just doesn't have the energy or the will to move. Finally, mechanically, he rearranges his clothing, making himself presentable again. The end result is still sweaty and rumpled and dead-eyed, but it will have to do.
And Kamui presses the heel of his hand to his mouth to suppress a wavery, almost keening sound welling up from some otherwise hollow place inside him.
"I hate this," he says abruptly, and although he doesn't understand what exactly he refers to he knows it's true.
He stays like that for a moment, curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, before he can stand up on creaky legs and find his way out of the cold.