Raindance [xxxholic, Doumeki/Watanuki, R]

[venefican.livejournal.com]

Title: Raindance
Author: venefican 
Prompt: xxxholic - Doumeki/Watanuki: sex in the rain - 'It's a quiet night, isn't it?'
Rating: R
Warnings:  sex
Words: 600
Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same. Time passes, and Watanuki stil hasn't learnt to take care of himself.
A/N: Sorry it's late, but time flies when you're having work.

 

The rain has been falling for the past week in soft unrelenting sheets like heavy velvet curtains, smothering the world underneath it. Nothing supernatural, says Watanuki, just a passing state of being. It won’t last.

Doumeki turns the corner, steps over the threshold and feels the quality of the rain change. Charge. Imbued with unknown knowledge. Watanuki stands in the middle of it, head tilted up into the downpour with a smile that reminds him of butterflies. The clothes he’s wearing cling and drag him downwards, a smaller, younger looking man. The one who had held a dead cat by a canal and decided to die alone.

He puts the shopping inside, and walks back.

Watanuki turns the odd half-smile on him. ‘It’s a quiet night, isn’t it?’

It’s not a question, not really, and nobody is looking for an answer. It is quiet; the rain is just a whisper of somebody’s voice in another room. And because Watanuki is looking up at him with an unanswered question and wearing a dead woman’s smile, Doumeki kisses him. He can’t not.

He pulls the shop owner towards a tree, wilting a little in the rain – isn’t it known that a tree needs water until its roots rot, but the tree won’t die, not here – and pushes him into the trunk.

‘It’s autumn. It won’t work as a shelter.’ Watanuki remarks, voice dry as old bones (under a bush, he’s still standing alone with a ribbon in the rain). Doumeki kisses him again, so he doesn’t have to hear that knowing tone that doesn’t sit right, like someone else’s clothes. Because Watanuki doesn’t know everything. Like how to take care of himself. He presses his fingers into Watanuki’s skin to feel the ghosts of scars, and all Watanuki does is push closer.

‘Moron.’

Watanuki smiles against his skin, eyelashes beating against Doumeki’s cheek like moths. It’s a tradition as old as them. ‘Idiot.’

It’s a small matter to lift Watanuki’s leg and hook it around his waist, press closer and harder until Watanuki twitches and moan-sighs, tilting his head back to meet the rain falling through the net of branches woven over them. There’s a chatter of metal as he lets his belt fall.

He presses in. Watanuki always seems a little surprised, and makes a cautious noise as pleasure as he lifts his other leg, gripping Doumeki’s water-logged shirt with hands that burn despite themselves. Water tracks its way over his skin, courses altered and altering as the two men finally strain together. Watanuki twists in his hands like a trapped bird, no matter that Doumeki has him pinned to the bark of the tree, and his back arches like a strung bow as he comes. Doumeki presses as close as he dares – as close as he can get, there’s no veneration to be used with this man stuck as a boy – and thrusts one final time.

The rain falls with its own quiet. Doumeki puffs out a breath that steams between them. He lets Watanuki’s legs drop, but holds on. Feels the exhaustion thrumming under his hands.

‘Watanuki.’ There’s no reverence in it.

The shop owner sighs and pouts, looking years younger and years more sullen. For a moment, nothing has changed since a witch stood where they do now, wreathed in smoke. It doesn’t last. The  vague, indistinct smile is back.

‘Just a spot of rain, Doumeki.’

Watanuki slides out of his grip, like smoke. Doumeki watches him pick his way across the grass, a figure in a grey kimono dyed black by an un-magical downpour.

‘It won’t last.’