Author: FancyFigures
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, wish I did, just enjoy writing about 'em for free etc
Pairings: 2x1
Category: Pocky angst/sap, Duo POV
Warnings: Yaoi, lemon
Spoilers: None
Notes: In our most private times, we turn to what comfort we truly need...
Feedback: If you liked it, PLEASE let me know!

Happy Christmas trixie!!! Only the smallest of ficlettes...

Personal Space

I mean, you can't call him cute, can you? Dammit, I tried it once, just in jest, and I swear to God my jaw still aches on the left side when there's damp in the air! He said it sounded like I was describing a kitten -- like I was enthusing over Pocky. Even as he dragged me up off the floor and apologised rather shamefacedly, he said it had sounded like I was patronizing him, and if I said it again he'd not pull his punch the next time.

But he is.

Cute, that is. And fascinating to me. And gorgeous. And, of course, he knows that's what I think! He knows that I know that he knows -- you know how it goes. It's all known; all goes without saying. Never spoken aloud; never really admitted. It'd embarrass the hell out of both of us, I guess.

OK, it gets me down sometimes. I ain't the world's best at such games! But I put up with it, because that's how he wants it. He calls the shots. Or likes to think he does.

So when he crashes at my place, I'm allowed to make him welcome; I'm allowed to feed him; provide shelter and washing and a kinda sanctuary. Perhaps I can even hold him for a while; listen to his halting tales of pain and confusion, while he recovers some kinda sanity. Perhaps we might slip into bed sometimes together, and those times are rich with excitement and a vibrancy that -- for me -- thrums along my nerves for days afterwards.

No-one else gets that close to me.

But it's never enough to become an expectation. Y'know? He doesn't need it, you see. Doesn't need me. He says it, often enough. His tone is sorta kindly -- like he doesn't want to upset me as his friend. But he doesn't need any more from me. The fucking is for fun -- it's a release for us both. We fit well together; we know exactly how to bring the best out in each other. Hell, do we!

And he'll be gone again before I can take anything for granted.

Look, I know it's not a pity fuck, for which I'm grateful. Jeez, I'd probably be grateful even if it was, 'cos at least I'd have that body in my bed, and that mouth on my throat, and that whimper of unbidden pleasure as my reward...

Anyway, enough of that. And I think fuckbuddies is too harsh a phrase to describe us. He's more than just a buddy -- our occasional nights are a damned sight more than just fucking. But I couldn't categorise it any further than that. Don't want to, really. Label it and lose it, is my motto. Take it and tolerate it, is the better option.

*

When he arrived last night, it looked like it had been a particularly bad time. He has these, sometimes -- stays away from all of us guys for months. We don't know where he goes, what he's done. Who's looked after him while he's been out of our care. And usually he turns up at one of the others' places first, even if he ends up sleeping on my couch or bed. Against my arching back.

This time he came to my place. To me - first.

He wouldn't talk about it, though. He ate with a barely controlled fury, like it had been a while. He drank more than he should have. He wouldn't call any of the others. There were rips in his coat; he winced when I accidentally knocked against his hip in the kitchen, fetching fruit for dessert.

I knew, of course, not to probe any further.

The sex? Yeah, there was sex. Even took me by surprise -- his aggression; his greed; his passion for me! We never made it to bed. He fell on me right there, in the kitchen, with a strange, gargled sound in his throat like a sob. His hands were harsh on my clothing, but almost reverent on me. I tried to make it comfortable for him, but he didn't seem to see me clearly. I tried to hold him back -- to give him more pleasure from it -- but he raced on regardless, taking me like he'd never get the chance again; holding me like I might melt away between his clutching fingers; moaning strange, incomprehensible sounds in my ear as he came, that made me shudder underneath him, even as the only word I recognised was my own name.

It had never been like that before.

He started to crash out on my couch shortly afterwards; I wouldn't have forced him to move, to clean up or anything -- but he dragged himself up to do it. He was in the shower almost before I'd run it to a decent temperature; he wouldn't let me take his clothes to wash, or unpack his bag for him. He only agreed to take my bed because I insisted.

I didn't talk to him again, though that's never been a problem with us. Silence is as eloquent for us; we operate on a more instinctive level most of the time. As I got out towels for him, I though I heard a sound from his mouth, as if he tried to say something to me. But when I turned, there was no sound there. Just his pursed lips, the water streaming down over his hair, plastering it against his head, and the fluorescent bathroom light shining in the corners of his eyes.

I left the bathroom, to give him the time and space to get ready for sleep. Those eyes were wild. They were -- unusual, is the only word that approaches a true description. Don't wanna use words like frenzied; like aggressive; like scared. He looked at me as I pulled the door over behind me, and he saw his reflection in my own gaze. He shuddered, and turned away from me.

*

And now he's here, asleep on my bed. I stand in the doorway, watching. Like I often do -- not that he knows it. Hair mussed, clothes in a pile on the floor. Boxers riding up on one side of his thigh. It's a pair of mine -- he doesn't seem to have many clothes with him this time. There's a ring of bruises around his ankles; angry weals on one calf. He looks a damned sight thinner than the last time I saw him.

But his eyes are closed on the misery, and his limbs are at peace from whatever conflict there's been this time. He's the most relaxed -- the most cute - he could ever be. And I'm the one who gets to see it.

His arm is folded up on the pillow, though he usually scorns the number of cushions I have on my bed; he sleeps almost flat on the mattress. There's the glimpse of pale fabric under his cheek -- I wonder if some of his clothes are caught up there, and I slip in quietly to move them out before they crease and irritate him in his deep sleep.

It's not clothing, I realise.

It's one of my plushies!

That used to be another topic of scorn for him -- my souvenirs of past and current friends. I collect 'em y'see; plushies -- OK, they're stuffed toys, they're playthings, they're for kids, some say... but I like 'em.

He stopped criticizing me about them, some months back. I got upset -- tried not to, but fuck I've had little enough of my own over the years, so I reckon I'm entitled to something! Well, the conversation went something like that. I waited for him to walk out, laughing. But he didn't. He stayed; he didn't mention them again. We slept together that night, and a couple afterwards, before he moved out again.

They're gifts that have been given me, or I've given myself; all the stuffed toys I gather round my room. There are memories there for me -- memories of people, of places. Memories of a drunken night; memories of an injured child; memories of uncontrollable laughter.

A couple I bought after he'd been to stay last time. One that looks a lot like him, though only a fool like me would know it.

I think he knew there was something there, in my collection, for me alone; something he had no call over. Despite his control of every other damned moment we're together. Something compensating me for my lost childhood; my lack of toys and childish comforters. Something he can't reach.

And now here was one, tucked up under his arm, resting against his lips, pouting as they pressed against the pillow. Guess he can't have possibly seen the resemblance, but it's the one that looks like him! Mop of hair; cute shorts. It looks a little ragged because I don't mind admitting it sleeps many nights with me. Silly kinda comfort -- but comfort nonetheless. Shit, it's probably carrying the thread of my drooling; sweat from those hot nights last month, when I was so restless in bed! I grin, nervously. Probably stinks of me.

He stirs in his sleep, though I know he won't have heard me. I move silently round that room many a night. Sometimes sit on the bed and breathe in his smell. Sometimes lie down beside him and feel the heat radiating from him.

He rolls over, still clutching the plushie. His chest is moving steadily. He's cleared a space behind him on the bed, and I wonder when he got so unselfish. He usually spreads out happily, filling whatever space he's given.

But then, I give him however much of that he needs, don't I?

I slip out of my sweats and decide to let the rest of the clearing up go hang. There's something about tonight that's different. I let myself down on the bed behind him, stretching out to match his length; my mouth at his neck; my bare feet almost touching his.

When the sound comes, I almost jump out of my skin.

"Mine." It's a whisper. I wonder if he's dreaming. If he means the plushie; if he means a person. He's still asleep -- I can tell from the pattern of his breathing.

I curl an arm around his waist, and press myself into the curve of his back. It's enough for me. The warmth comes from a lot more than the bed and the rumpled blankets around us.

"Yes," I whisper back. "Yours."

End

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