He could not remember how long he’d slept in this bed. His side of the futon was lumpier with the extra down comforter, the other side rumpled from a cool body sleeping on top of the black leather quilt.
My life is so strange. Touma ran his hand over the uneven surface. The leather was tough but smooth to the touch, worn down like the wrappings on a sword hilt, marked by flesh and friction. Even that was imbued with magic -- stains wiped clean away every time, no matter how long they’d been there. It saved trips to the Ningenkai just to dry-clean the comforter underneath.
The room was a similar mish-mash of old and new. His new sneakers sat in a corner away from the tatami mats, hentai manga mixed with ancient scrolls, engraved wooden screens festooned with clips from motorcycle magazines
"What are you doing up?" Arms wrapped around his torso, cold as ice, shadows prickling Touma’s eyes. He shivered. He didn’t need an armor bond to know what Yami Masho wanted. After weeks... months? of practice, he could scent it on him, rolling off like a fog of want and dominance.
Touma bared his neck and sharp incisors dug into his skin. "Kujuurou..."
A name. It had been the first gift between them, the true mortal name of the Demon of Darkness. Touma doubted the other Masho knew it.
Blood was running down his shoulder. Touma was growing lightheaded, making it that much harder to squirm out of the warm nest of the comforter and crawl onto the black leather. Nails dug angry welts into his hips.
"You want this, boy?"
Touma had no breath to speak, his blood cooling quickly in the suddenly frigid air and staining his chin, an icy metal ring snapping over his balls.
Yes! Yes, give it to me.
And Kujuurou’s body was over him, and Touma nearly cried for its solidness, despite the rough bites, despite the hard length shoved against his ass.
"Then dream for me. Touma. The yoroi wants it."
Touma shuddered. So dangerous to feed the winter armor, but Kayura-sama would not know until it was too late.
Another rough bite. Touma mewled, feeling his body being spread. His eyes shut tight, squeezing, until all he could see was darkness. And snow.
Where his memories had been, there was snow. Like dust kicked up in the wind, and beyond that, visibility was zero. Where had they met? When? What had happened to land him in bed with one of their worst enemies? Seiji’s nightmare... Yet Touma found it did not matter. The important events of his life were safe in his journal. Every now and then he would open it up and read it like a novel. He still had his intelligence and spirit, still loved the same people and cared about the same things.
And as long as the cock inside him kept pounding, nothing else mattered.
Then, alone under the harsh lights of the locker room. Touma was too dazed to seek the relative privacy of the bathroom stalls. Bewildered, he took in the sight of his torn clothes and the moisture which was still warm on his skin. His next move was to feel out Tenku. The armor, true to its virtue, was likely the most sentient of the five, and he knew it would protect him even when unconscious.
How funny. There had been no need for alarm. Just... a little bit cold, that was all, not even an attempt to raise an energy shield. Yet here he was--
Guiltily he looked up at Seiji’s wide lavender eyes. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, the blond rushed over and hugged him, looking him over with panic in his eyes and curses under his breath. Touma vaguely realized his fly was unbuttoned and his shirt untucked. He reeked of sex.
It was the anger in Seiji’s voice that finally roused him. "Who did this to you!"
"Did..." Touma clamped his mouth shut on Did what? "Nothing happened, Seij."
He’d never seen his friend look so stricken. Touma... you were raped.
Touma resisted when Seiji tried to pull him towards the showers. One last time he felt for that space between his soul and the armor and in a stern tone asked Tenku if that had been the case. Somehow he was not surprised by the answer.
I consented, Seiji.
The swordsman stared at Touma as he turned and opened his locker for some clean clothes. Right under the periodic table of elements, his magnetic mirror swung precariously on the door. Touma glanced first at Seiji’s reflection, then at himself. How old was he? Sixteen? He felt six hundred.
Touma... I hope you’re not doing this because we...
He raised a brow at Seiji. It’s been three weeks. I’m not going to go through all this trouble just to make you jealous. And just a year ago he’d been a virgin. Saving the world, no less. You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Seiji?
Baka! I’m worried about you.
Glacial blue eyes regarded the blond. I can take care of myself. And if I were in real trouble, the armor would protect me.
They never spoke of it again.
How many weeks before I found out who you were? Who kept visiting my room in the middle of the night...?
Kujuurou undid Touma’s chains, listening to his dream-babble. Instinctively the boy wrapped himself around him. Touma’s warm, moist hand fell naturally over the cross-shaped scar. Well-practiced, the dark-haired Masho did not flinch at the touch.
The dull throb of Yami slowly lost its hold on his mind. It was the most powerful of all nine armors, though there were more cunning warriors. It had been the armor which had spurred him to seek out Tenku no Touma, the youngest of the samurai, naive, easily given to manipulation.
How angry the boy had been when he’d finally caught him in the act. Sweetly tinged with that drop of fear, of course, but his outrage at losing all memory of their trysts surprised Kujuurou.
That night they exchanged, secret for secret. The boy learned his true name. And he learned something about Touma which turned everything upside down.
... told you so... I can’t get enough. Seiji doesn’t make it hurt enough. I didn’t know I needed it, before you... make it hurt. Make it bleed. Make it good...
Shh. Do not rouse Yami yoroi again. Kayura-sama will hear it. Now, sleep.
Kujuurou watched him sleep. He was prone to such, when he took a lover. Sleep was difficult to hold on to when darkness wrapped itself around his heart and told him what to dream.
But no one like this.
Touma thought nothing of buying cotton candy to share, or biking down a hill bare-handed, or simply sprawling on his lap to read. They were comfortable, now. It had not been as such when their armors and virtues were at odds. Beautiful, foolish boy.
Could they even guess what price he’d paid? Did they know their lovely Touma had mortgaged his soul to stay with him?
They might be on their death beds before they found out. That parting, too, was part of the price.
Kujuurou pulled him close. No matter. The shadows were theirs.
And in the shadows, Touma dreamed of a voice.
It was singing.
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