Issues

Schuldig expended a little extra mental effort to ensure nobody in the bar took undue notice when the man with the long silver hair and the dead eyes and the enormous fucking sword walked in. He couldn't help himself; he was intrigued. The guy hid it well, projecting a fuck-you-all front of predatory grace and power, but he was deeply confused. Curious, Schuldig dug a little deeper.

Whoa. Issues.

He smirked into his drink and kicked out the empty seat next to him at the bar. He gave the stranger a little mental push until he headed in Schuldig's direction and settled stiffly onto the empty stool.

"Hey," Schuldig said, licking his lips as he met unsettling green eyes in the mirror over the bar. "I like your hair."

The man grunted, more in response to the bartender’s approach than to Schuldig’s compliment. Not one for flattery, then.

“Yeah?” The bartender asked disinterestedly, smacking her gum as she ambled over. Schuldig was tempted to get her undiluted reaction to the guy and his get-up, but that would almost certainly cut into his getting-to-know-you time.

“I’ll take this,” the man said in a voice so low Schuldig could swear he felt it in his own balls. He pointed one black-gloved finger at something midway down one of the greasy, cheaply laminated drink menus.

She snapped her gum in affirmation, sashaying off to the liquor bottles, and plucked up a decent vodka. Not a bad choice for someone with no idea what he’d been ordering. The man stared straight ahead as she poured him a shot, his expression neutral—tightly controlled—but bordering on a scowl.

Schuldig produced a large bill and held it folded between two fingers. “Leave the bottle, honey.”

“Sure, whatever.” She snatched the bill and clunked a second shot glass in front of him before making herself scarce. Schuldig couldn’t quite work up the wherewithal to care that he wouldn’t be getting any change back, not when there were more interesting matters at hand.

The stranger made no comment on Schuldig’s generosity, curling his fingers tightly around the shot glass and blinking down at it as if he weren’t sure what to do with it. Schuldig drained what was left of his own drink and then poured himself a shot and knocked it back too, demonstrating how it was done. He was in a helpful mood.

Finally the man raised his glass, downing the shot with an efficient movement. Schuldig nudged the bottle his way.

“I didn’t ask you for this,” the man stated flatly, eyes narrowing slightly in the mirror.

This one was skittish. “You didn’t,” Schuldig agreed. He poured another shot for himself, leaving the bottle between their glasses in neutral territory. Best not to push too hard. Let him make the next move. Still, Schuldig made no effort to disguise his interest, leaning back and lazily studying the man’s reflection in the mirror. He didn’t need his talent to know the man wasn’t local, but from the jumble of confused images he was picking up just beneath his surface thoughts, Schuldig suspected that he was very far from home. Although, in Schuldig’s experience, inter-dimensional visitors tended to smell more of brimstone and normally didn’t show up dressed for the fetish scene. He gulped down his shot.

The man gave no outward indication of whether Schuldig’s obvious observation bothered him or not, but underneath he was a coil of tension, ready to strike when startled by a bark of laughter from the table behind them. That vigilance kept Schuldig from digging too deeply. He was picking up some vague sort of sensitivity from the man that he couldn’t put his finger on—not necessarily a talent, but something…different, extra—and didn’t want to spook him. Instead, he sat and watched, having a few more drinks—making them last—since the stranger wasn’t touching the bottle. Just to pass the time, he tried a little precision work, planting subtle hints about the best places for someone with the speed and dexterity he was sensing from the creature next to him to make a few quick, easy scores. Places where he’d almost blend in with the spoiled children who liked to play dress-up and loiter in the streets, a bored, roving human zoo exhibit. With luck, the man would assume he’d come up with the idea himself and pick up a little cash before the night was over. Maybe he’d find a place to sleep other than the street.

It would be a pity for dirty alley pavement to trash that coat of his.

The bottle was somewhere between three-quarters and half full when Schuldig decided they’d shared enough silence for one night and conceded temporary defeat. He planted one last suggestion in the stranger’s mind before pushing up from his barstool with a reasonable degree of grace. Time to go back to the grind. He slid the vodka bottle over until it clinked against the other’s empty shot glass, making his point elegantly, he thought. “I’m Schuldig,” he said, taking one last look at those creepy eyes in the mirror.

“Sephiroth,” the man replied coolly, utterly surprising Schuldig.

Schuldig felt the corner of his mouth lift in a smirk. He leaned in close to the man—he could swear that underneath the din of the half-full bar, he could hear the creak of leather as the man tightly gripped the hilt of that gigantic sword—and whispered in his ear. “A friendly piece of advice: You want to keep walking around free in this city? Find a safe place to stash the overcompensating-for-something-sword-o-doom.” He lightly tapped the man’s left wrist for emphasis before stepping away, watching the line of his shoulders expand as he stiffened in his seat.

“Oh, and Sephiroth?” he called over his shoulder, feeling a little prickle of delight at the way the name tasted in his mouth. “You might want to lose the white shoulder pads, too.”

~~~

The sword was gone the next time Sephiroth pushed into the bar, but the pauldrons—Schuldig had gotten bored and looked up the name on Wikipedia when he was supposed to be helping Nagi dig up the Sato Industries invoices—were still there. All that pretty hair looked a bit worse for wear, greasy and a little tangled, but that fuck-me-hard long, black coat was still in decent shape. Not sleeping on the streets then, but not exactly staying at the Ritz, either.

The scowl was more pronounced, confusion still swirling deliciously on the surface of Sephiroth’s mind as he wondered what the hell he was doing back there. His eyes darted lightning fast around the dim room with its buzzing neon signs, narrowing in recognition as they settled on Schuldig. Schuldig shot him a nasty little grin and resisted the urge to waggle his fingers hello. That’s right, sweetheart. You’re here because I wanted you to be. Sensitive or not, the man was still susceptible to telepathic suggestion. For a tense moment, Schuldig was sure he was going to have to push to keep him from walking out—which really would take some of the fun out of things—but then Sephiroth ducked his head and flashed him an evil look with enough promise to rival one of Brad Crawford’s best. Fuck it, let’s play.

Clearly he’d made it through the week without getting arrested or carted off to a rubber room, but Schuldig went ahead and dimmed the bar patrons’ perceptions of him anyway. He wasn’t exactly blending in. Schuldig poured a drink from the bottle he’d already ordered and set it down at the empty spot next to him as Sephiroth walked over. “Rough week?” he asked the reflection in the mirror over the bar.

Sephiroth grunted and tipped back his head to down the offered shot as he settled onto his seat. Schuldig watched in amusement as Sephiroth snatched the bottle off the bar, filled his glass neatly to the brim, and slammed back the second shot. Looked like a week in Tokyo was enough time to learn to appreciate a free drink.

He waited for Sephiroth to ask one of the questions cycling through his thoughts. After they’d each made it through another two shots in not-quite-companionable silence he realized Sephiroth wasn’t the kind of bastard to be waited out; the man wasn’t about to expose weakness and increase his disadvantage by asking Schuldig anything tonight.

Not willing to spend another evening in quiet observation, Schuldig probed a little at Sephiroth’s mind as he poured himself another drink, looking for a decent opener. He’d already established that compliments weren’t going to work, and based on the shame and humiliation simmering under the hood, the way the guy spent the last week was off limits too. The man was no boy scout, but even the notion that he’d be scraping by on an activity as lowly as petty theft would have been unfathomable to Sephiroth up until seven days ago. In fact, the guy was so superior, Schuldig couldn’t put his finger on why he’d decided to walk into this nothing dive of a bar in the first place.

“What made you come in here last time, anyway?” he asked with genuine curiosity, breaking the semi-hostile silence.

Sephiroth grunted again and had another shot. Schuldig was convinced he was going to ignore the question, but then he murmured, “Soldiers.”

“Eh?”

“It looked like the sort of place soldiers would come for a drink.”

Schuldig thought about that for a moment, taking a considering look at the black boots—more sturdy than sexy when you were really paying attention—and the thick metal cuffs at his wrists—probably better suited to smashing in faces than serving as bondage gear. He looked more like one of those pansy-ass assassins than any soldier that Schuldig had seen, but the statement rang true. In his confusion, the guy had fallen into old habits, retreating to surroundings that felt comforting and familiar. Schuldig thought he could work with that.

He casually propped his elbow against the bar, grinning. “Yeah, well, the only soldier you’re likely to find around here is me.”

“You?” Sephiroth said, turning slightly and raising an incredulous eyebrow as he really looked at Schuldig for the first time. Schuldig decided not to take too much offense since he’d finally got the bastard to bite.

“In a sense. I do my fair share of fighting for a cause.”

Sephiroth turned more fully to face Schuldig, his eyes slowly moving up and down, sizing him up. He snorted and poured another shot. “You wouldn’t have made the cut where I’m from,” he said, turning back and downing his drink.

Touché. Schuldig studied the smooth, hard face next to his in the bar’s mirror. He ran a fingernail along the inner seam of his pants. “Wanna test that theory outside?” His blood stirred at the thought.

Sephiroth gave Schuldig’s reflection another assessing look. “Not with you.” He flowed up onto his feet, casually taking the full glass sitting in front of Schuldig—meeting his eyes as he brought the drink to his lips—and then tilting his head back, exposing a long neck, his throat muscles working to swallow. He set the empty glass back on the bar upside down. “Accepting every third-rate…fighter’s challenges got boring a long time ago,” he said as he turned to leave.

Schuldig wrapped his fingers around the oily feeling glass, more amused than insulted. He took a final quick dig into the other man’s mind, smirking when he found what he needed. “Yeah, well,” he said, pushing away from the bar and grabbing the half-full bottle. “That was then. You’re not in Midgar anymore, babe.” He pressed the bottle into Sephiroth’s hands and walked away, not bothering to look back—he didn’t need to when he could feel the man stiffening in surprise. See you next week, Sephiroth.

~~~

The next week, Sephiroth was already waiting for him, sending mixed messages, his back—tense and arrow-straight—to the door, but a chilled bottle sitting open and inviting in the empty spot next to him at the bar. His hair and clothes looked clean this time. The pauldrons were no longer white, but spray-painted in the garish red and gold of one of the area’s more prominent bosozoku gangs. Schuldig was pretty sure he’d seen those colors on one of the kids who’d been at the arms deal Crawford had brokered last week with the Yakuza. Apparently, somebody was moving up in the world.

Sephiroth gave him no acknowledgement as Schuldig slid into the seat he’d come to think of as ‘his’. “Aren’t you a little old for a bike gang?” he asked, pouring himself his first drink. Sephiroth had shelled out for the good stuff. Schuldig was touched.

Sephiroth gave him a look that said those biker thugs would be calling him ‘sir’ in another week. Schuldig was almost inclined to believe it. He poured his first drink of the night and raised it in a mocking salute. “To soldiers.”

Sephiroth picked up his glass and brought it to his lips. “To mercenaries,” he corrected in his rumbling voice, and Schuldig liked that so much, he found himself smiling simply with the pleasure of it.

“Mercenaries,” he agreed, drinking. “You know,” he said, relishing the burn spreading through his stomach, “you didn’t have to spring for the bottle. I’m a cheap date.”

Sephiroth snorted. “No, really?”

Oh-ho, had someone decided to develop a sense of humor? Maybe Tokyo was starting to agree with him. “Us third-raters have to do something to broaden our appeal.”

Sephiroth acknowledged the taunt with a feral grin. Schuldig could feel the curiosity coiling around the other man’s thoughts—caught your interest now, haven’t I?—but there was no way Sephiroth was going to sacrifice the tactical advantage he’d gained in arriving first, in the expensive bottle, by going back on anything he’d said before or asking questions. This asshole’s thought processes really were a little too much like Crawford’s.

Sephiroth surprised Schuldig again by turning and giving him an assessing look quite unlike the last week’s appraisal. Cat-green eyes lingered below Schuldig’s waist before settling on his face. Sephiroth licked his lips. “Maybe you’re not third-rate at everything.”

Clever. “I have my talents,” Schuldig said, knowing they were both referring to more than what sort of a piece of ass he was. Still, the dirty promise in those eyes was affecting him enough that he was glad the interest didn’t feel entirely put-on. “So you ready to take this outside?”

Sephiroth considered it for a moment—bastard still wanted to play hard-to-get—before nodding slightly. He gracefully slipped off his barstool, grabbing the mostly full bottle and leading the way to the alley exit. He rolled his neck from side to side as he walked, loosening up, subtly flexing muscles in his shoulders and arms. Schuldig wasn’t sure whether they were going out to fuck or fight. He was too pleased with either outcome to spoil the surprise by peeking.

The metal door creaked as Sephiroth pushed it open, revealing the empty alley, nothing but dumpsters and broken glass and faded club fliers swirling on the dirty pavement. He held the door open for Schuldig, motioning for him to go ahead. Schuldig smiled ironically at the perceived chivalry and took a deep breath of the chill night air. He heard the squeak of the door shutting and the clink of the bottle being set down and then ducked to avoid the swift hand reaching for the back of his neck. There was a teasing breeze as fingers just missed the short hairs there and then Sephiroth was rolling into the dodge, compensating for overreaching, channeling the force of it into a lightning somersault that had him popping up in front of Schuldig.

Goddamn the fucker was fast!

Schuldig nimbly stepped back to avoid the sweep of a low spin-kick. Rough brick snagged against his coat as he backed into the alley wall and he twisted to the side, Sephiroth’s closed fist narrowly missing his jaw. Schuldig got off a gut-punch that connected solidly against a stomach that felt as unyielding as the brick at his back. Sephiroth didn’t so much as blink, instead slamming his fists against the wall on either side of Schuldig’s head, trapping him with his body, hitting so hard little flakes of plaster tinkled down onto the alley floor. Schuldig swallowed hard and licked his lips, contemplating whether he should pull his gun or not. He noticed Sephiroth’s eyes track the motion of his tongue and decided against it. He wrapped his fingers around Sephiroth’s wrists and brought a knee up into his groin—not quite fast enough or hard enough to hurt, not badly, at least, but swift enough to be taken seriously. There was a hint of hardness there and Schuldig ruthlessly exploited it, rapidly changing tacks and shifting the raised knee further back, sliding his thigh between Sephiroth’s legs.

He could feel the tension in Sephiroth through his grip on the other man’s wrists, heard a slight hitch in his harsh breathing, and figured it was time to quit fucking around. Groaning, he leaned forward and licked a wet stripe down a stark tendon of Sephiroth’s neck.

Sephiroth switched gears with impressive speed, flattening his palms against the wall and shifting his hips, grinding against Schuldig’s leg. Schuldig felt the deliciously low rumble in the other man’s throat through his own lips and tongue. He grinned against salty skin before biting down teasingly.

Sephiroth growled and lowered his head to Schuldig’s. “Midgar,” he said, his breath hot and damp in Schuldig’s ear as he shook off the hold on his wrists, sliding his left hand down the wall and worming it between their bodies. “Tell me what you know about where I came from.”

Schuldig bucked up into the aggressive touch, reveling in the dark mind in front of him as he sank more deeply into it. It was so wonderfully fucked up in there. Schuldig was about to go off and they hadn’t really even started yet. “Mmm, I know your planet decided to shake you off,” he licked Sephiroth’s ear, “like a bad case of fleas.”

Sephiroth squeezed, a little too hard for Schuldig’s tastes, and then pulled away, flashing that evil half-smile as he stepped back. Schuldig’s hips stuttered forward without his permission, blindly seeking more friction. He searched the other man’s face. Sephiroth plucked the vodka bottle from the ground without breaking eye contact, the half-smile turning more predatory as he pushed the bottle into Schuldig’s chest.

“Yeah, but that was then. This,” he said, leaning forward and teasing Schuldig’s parted lips with his tongue, “is now.”

And with a flourish of that long black coat and that shiny silver hair, Schuldig was left standing alone in the alley.

~~~

Schuldig didn’t make it to the bar the next week—an assignment in Kyoto served as the perfect excuse for him to switch up the steps in their little dance—so he wasn’t terribly surprised when, a week and a half later, Sephiroth slid into the booth seat across from his at the little coffee shop. Of course, the shop was only a few blocks away from their bar, not to mention skirting prime gang territory, and Schuldig had made a habit of spending at least an hour there every afternoon. Crawford had actually taken notice and asked him what he’d been doing spending so much time outside of the apartment.

Cultivating a new underworld contact, he’d said. Crawford had gone all vision-glassy before shooting Schuldig a wolfish grin. Schuldig had decided to take that as a good sign and gotten his ass out of there before the temptation of a glimpse at the future led him to compromise his dignity.

He let his eyes wander over the man sitting across from him, noting the changes with what he tried to make look like casual interest. The coat and boots were the same, the pauldrons still present but back to their original white. Moving up from letting them tag you like a dog, huh? The black shirt and pants underneath looked new and expensive. The long hair half-obscuring dark, designer sunglasses was downright glossy. Schuldig idly wondered which stylist Sephiroth had been seeing.

He’d told himself this time he was going to wait the bastard out, but sitting face-to-face with him, Schuldig decided he didn’t really mind being the first one to speak. “Miss me last week?” He pursed his lips.

Sephiroth lowered his shades just enough to give Schuldig a cool look from over them and then pushed them back up his nose. “This isn’t your neighborhood,” he commented blandly, calling Schuldig out on playing not-so-hard-to-get.

“Says who? Been checking up on me, have you?” Schuldig leaned back in his booth, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sephiroth’s lips twitched ever so slightly in amusement. Don’t want to admit you’re that interested, do you, lover? Sephiroth shrugged. “It’s advantageous for a soldier to familiarize himself with the local customs and community when engaging new territory.”

“So this is your neighborhood now?”

In answer, Sephiroth lazily raised his hand. The skinny kid behind the counter who’d taken ten minutes to bring Schuldig his latte earlier scurried over to their table with a steaming mug so large it could’ve doubled as a soup tureen. Sephiroth accepted it silently. The kid waited until he’d taken a sip and nodded his head minutely in approval before hightailing it back to the counter.

Fighting back the smile that wanted to take over his face, Schuldig cleared his throat. “That doesn’t mean anything.” He sunk a little lower on his seat, spreading his legs. “You want to convince me this is your neighborhood, you’re going to have to prove it.”

Sephiroth took another sip from his vat of coffee, slowly licking a stray drop from the corner of his mouth. He arched an eyebrow. “Prove it?”

“Well, if this is your neighborhood,” Schuldig said, eyeing him up and down, letting his gaze linger in all the most suggestive places, “then you must have a room around here.”

The corner of Sephiroth’s mouth lifted in a smirk. He shook his head slowly, pulling out a fat roll of bills and placing one on the scuffed table before gaining his feet. He turned his back on Schuldig, and for a long second, Schuldig was positive the cocky bastard was going to walk away, stretch this dance out for another week or more, but then Sephiroth cocked his head towards the doorway. “You coming?”

Schuldig fumbled for his own wrinkled wad of bills, carelessly throwing a few at the table’s surface as he scrambled to follow Sephiroth.

The streets were relatively quiet in the late afternoon sunlight—too early yet for the kids to be out on their bikes, a bit too late for most of the neighborhood’s legitimate businesses to be busy. Sephiroth moved unhurriedly, sinuous and confident as he led Schuldig down side streets and alleys, never turning his head to so much as acknowledge Schuldig’s presence. Schuldig opened himself up a little, checking nearby minds for ambushes or other nasty surprises, but taking only the briefest of glimpses at Sephiroth’s thoughts. He didn’t intend to return home tonight unsatisfied. A little frisson of anticipation played through him when he felt the intent to follow through that was radiating from Sephiroth.

They finally stopped around the back of an out-of-business laundromat at a narrow door with peeling paint and a cheap combination lock. Sephiroth thumbed in the combination with nimble fingers and pulled the door open for Schuldig. Schuldig ducked into the dim room. It held nothing more than a narrow bed covered in a rough-looking blanket, a milk crate for a table, and a rust-stained sink, a stick-on mirror and pull-cord light bulb mounted above it. The place reeked of low-level safe house. Perhaps Sephiroth had spent his first week or two in Tokyo here, but no way was he staying here anymore. Schuldig hadn’t expected the man to lead him back to where he actually slept these days.

Schuldig whistled. “Very nice,” he said. “This really must be your neigh-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought as Sephiroth stepped inside and used his speed and strength to knock him face-first into the wall, making Schuldig’s breath oof out of him in a semi-embarrassing squeak. Sephiroth pinned his wrists above his head and kicked his legs apart before pressing against him, pushing whatever air was left out of his lungs. Schuldig was off to the races—he’d been hard since Sephiroth had slid into the seat across from his—the dance nearly forgotten as he felt the thrill of another killer’s body against his own. He humped against the wall, shamelessly grinding back into the solid flesh behind him.

Sephiroth shifted to grip his wrists with just one hand, wrapping the other lightly around Schuldig’s neck and gently rubbing his thumb over Schuldig’s carotid artery. It gave Schuldig a shivery sensation that was a solid reminder of his racing pulse. He disjointedly realized that he’d completely lost the upper hand, but then Sephiroth was spreading those long fingers up and over his neck, worming them into his mouth, and Schuldig was too busy moaning and sucking to care. On reflex, he dove as deeply into the other man’s mind as he could, greedy to double his sensations. A whisper of memory, thin and worn, but vivid nonetheless, swam up to meet him.

The silver-haired boy, so much younger and so much better than all the other men in the barracks, bit his lip, rolling onto his belly and hiding his hot face in the pillow, ashamed and thrilled and trying so very hard not to wake the other soldiers as he pressed a finger into himself and shot into the scratchy regulation sheets bunched underneath him.

Schuldig grinned around the fingers fucking his mouth. Too fucking perfect. He bit down, hard, and used Sephiroth’s moment of outraged surprise and his own unnatural speed to reverse their positions, spinning out and around and thumping the other man’s back against the wall. Somewhere along the way, Sephiroth’s sunglasses had gotten knocked off his face, and his eyes were wide and bright as they stared into Schuldig’s. Didn’t realize I could move that fast, did you, tiger?

Keeping a firm hold on Sephiroth’s upper arms, he leaned in and teasingly licked the tip of his nose. Sephiroth kicked and struggled, but Schuldig could tell it was mostly for show—if the man really wanted to break his hold, he was almost certainly strong enough to do it. He stopped fighting pretty quickly, chest heaving against Schuldig’s, eyes narrowed and defiant, but also damned hungry. Schuldig risked relaxing his hold to run a hand down to Sephiroth’s belly, palming his diamond-hard cock through those slick and expensive slacks. He traced the fly up to the waistband, inching his fingers around to his back and then slowly, firmly, running them over the seam that ran along the crack of his ass, dragging the tips of his fingers up and down.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you now?” Schuldig whispered, mouth hovering inches from Sephiroth’s.

Sephiroth pulled his face back and lowered his head, eyes full of that dark promise, ready to watch the world burn.

Schuldig had all the answer he needed.

~~~

He woke up alone, dry-mouthed and disoriented, bruised and scratched, sorer than he’d ever felt before after topping, and immensely satisfied. He rubbed a hand over his hair and staggered over to the little sink that was across from the bed to rinse out his mouth and splash some water over his itchy pubes.

It wasn’t until after he’d finished with the basic necessities that he noticed the glint of metal reflected in the little mirror. Surprised, he spun around.

There, leaning against the wall inches from where he’d slept, sharp and deadly as its owner, was that enormous fucking sword.

Schuldig smirked at it, shaking his head. Real subtle, asshole. I get it. You could have killed me anytime.

He pulled on his clothes and, making a snap decision, used the sliver of yellow soap scumming up the bottom of the sink to scrawl a phone number on the mirror. Underneath it, he wrote:

If you ever decide you want to take it to war again….