November

For Wen

Ban smokes silently, watching the tiny orange-gold lights dip and fall with the waves. The first and furthest away of them is already difficult to distinguish, blurring into the illumination lining Tokyo Bay, the city's sprawl reflected like jewels on a black mirror. The night chill settles into his extremities, broken by distinct points of warmth: the glow of the cigarette between his fingers, Ginji pressed against his side.

Chill or not, he's glad that it's November. November is a lattice of bare branches framing an empty blue sky, and the world with nothing to do but wait for spring again. October holds out too many bright colours, too many false hopes.

Ginji shifts, with a content-sounding sigh, and Ban feels hair brush against his collar.

"Ne, Ban-chan," he says, "You can see the stars from here."

"With this light pollution?"

"If you look straight up."

Ban turns his head. Ginji's sitting with his legs sprawled out and elbows propped on the side of the boat, leaning dangerously back. Ban's gaze follows the curve of his body, pallor of shirt and skin against the darkness; the look in Ginji's eyes is faraway.

"Right," he says. "I see them." He drops his cigarette over the side. Then he leans over and presses his lips to a place he knows, on the side of Ginji's throat – just below his ear – where his pulse flutters very close to the skin.

Ginji sighs, deeply, and Ban feels in the way his body relaxes that he's closed his eyes. He turns his head toward Ban, and the next kiss is mouth-to-mouth, breaths mingling, tongues probing.

Ginji tastes like summer: sunlight and green leaves and ozone, the scent of a late-afternoon thunderstorm out of time, in the dead of winter. There's something in Ban that's always fighting the cold – long enough that the struggle's diminished to normalcy – and Ginji wakens that part of him to startled want. His hand tightens on Ginji's shoulder, and he moves to kneel on the seat, astride Ginji's lap. The boat dips sideways, alarmingly.

Ginji breaks away from the kiss, laughs. "Maybe we should wait 'til we get back to the car," he says, and reaches up to bat Ban's hair out of his eyes. Ban smirks.

"I like it fine here," he says. Turns his head to catch at the buckled strap of Ginji's glove with his teeth, tasting leather and metal. Ginji holds still and lets Ban pull the glove off like that, dropping it into his lap. Then he breathes again and draws his fingers down Ban's exposed throat – a conscious decision to allow the touch there, a privilege Ban's never given anyone else – undoing buttons along the way, until Ban's shirt is hanging open and he's pressing his hand hard against Ban's chest, just over his heart. Skin on skin.

It's Ginji who prefers that. Ban likes the leather just as well, when it's warm, when it's Ginji.

"Car," Ginji says again, and Ban shakes his head, leaning in for another kiss.

"Same fucking difference," he murmurs against Ginji's lips. "I'm not putting the top up. You left a shoeprint on it last time."

"But I told you that couldn't have been me, Ban-chan, you—"

"Urusai." And Ginji shuts up quite gratifyingly, while Ban kisses his way down to the dip between his collarbones and slides his hands under his t-shirt.

"It's someone else's boat, Ban-chan," he whispers when Ban lifts his head. It's too dark to see whether he's blushing, but Ban can feel the heat emanating from his body. Other things too… He shifts in Ginji's lap deliberately, noting Ginji's muffled squeak with satisfaction.

"Not as if they'd know, dumbass." And going by feel it won't take very long. Last time was… when was last time? "Here, move up. It's plenty wide enough."

Ginji obeys, toeing off his boots. He swings his feet onto the cushions – and pulls Ban with him, unexpectedly. It throws him off-balance, and he has to catch hold of Ginji's shoulders to prevent them from bumping noses.

"Oi, Ginji—"

Ginji slides a hand around the nape of his neck and kisses him again, cutting off the rest of the sentence. After a moment his other arm goes around Ban's neck as well, and he takes off his left glove without looking.

Neither of them moves to break the kiss until they're both winded.

"Ban-chan," Ginji whispers. "Ban-chan…" He receives no answer, apart from a tightening of Ban's grip on his shoulders. Ban gazes down at him, blue eyes half-shuttered; Ginji has no words for that familiar look, but it makes his heart expand in his chest until it's difficult to breathe.

"Ban-chan," he says again, making it a question. It always means something other than just Ban's name anyhow, and they've been with each other long enough that they're past entire sentences. Ban's eyebrows lift.

"Well," he says, "are you going to take all night about it?"

Ginji flashes a smile at that, shaking his head. He reaches up and takes off Ban's glasses, folding them carefully and sticking them into one of his own pockets for safekeeping. Then he moves to undo Ban's belt.

It's difficult to get Ban's trousers down in the position they're in, and finally they have to shift around until Ginji's kneeling over Ban instead. The plasticky fabric of the cushions isn't really a comfortable surface to lie on, but it's warm from Ginji's body, and Ban can't be bothered to care.

"Get these off as well," he says, hooking his fingers under Ginji's linked belt and feeling for the catch. It comes out more breathless than he likes; Ginji's nuzzling at his hairline, running a wet tongue-tip around the edge of his ear. The sensation produces an unexpected jolt of desire. He hears his shoes hit the deck with a dull thump, followed by the slide of fabric: his trousers, Ginji's vest. Ginji's hands are warm on his bare thighs, and he fumbles briefly before recovering. "Wait—"

"Ne, Ban-chan," Ginji says, "relax." And before Ban can begin to sputter he slides a practiced hand around Ban's cock, and Ban gasps and has to bite down before he can say something stupid.

"Fuck," he manages finally. "Fuck, Ginji, don't—"

"Ban-chan?"

"—Don't stop."

Ginji hums acquiescence, happily. Ban lets out a shaky breath and lets his head fall forward against Ginji's shoulder. He's gotten good at this, he thinks muzzily, and isn't it funny what sticks when the history of Western art is a lost cause? His hands clench on Ginji's shirt for purchase.

Ginji turns his head and presses his lips against the curve of Ban's throat, inhaling the scent of Ban's skin. Trial and error make for experience: he touches Ban slowly – the way he likes it – until Ban's breath hitches, and then he stills a second before starting again, just a little faster. It comes near to teasing, and Ban swears softly, grip tightening and hips canting upward. He's torn Ginji's clothes in similar situations. At other times he left encircling bruises on Ginji's arms, his wrists, whatever he happened to latch onto at the time. Ginji would hide the marks if it were at all possible; not because he minds them in particular, but because seeing them makes it harder for Ban to let go the next time. Giving himself over to Ban is simple in comparison.

It's playing with fire. But then it's easy to trust Ban normally, when he's thinking and has the situation locked down behind his eyes; it doesn't even require faith on Ginji's part.

When Ginji reaches reflexively for a pocket he realises that his vest is on the deck, and has to lean over to fumble by feel, pressing Ban back against the cushions in the same motion. Ban makes a sound, low in his throat, and slides his hands over and down Ginji's back. Hard, encouraging. Ginji closes his eyes against the temptation to grind down with his hips.

"Ban-chan—"

"Hurry the fuck up," Ban breathes, and Ginji nuzzles his collarbone, kisses and sucks hard enough to mark the skin. He finds the soft plastic tube in his vest pocket and opens it one-handed, getting the contents all over his fingers and probably over the fabric. No matter, as long as it was enough.

Ban needs barely any coaxing to part his legs, lifting his knees for better purchase. He inhales sharply when Ginji's fingers slide in, artificially slick with lubricant, but it's not a sound of protest. Ginji has learnt – not to disregard it, precisely – but not to hesitate. Ban responds to certain types of rough handling in a way that seems instinctive, nearly helpless; it's something Ginji accepts without needing to understand, like so much else about Ban. They've never spoken of it.

He makes the preparation cursory at best, relying on the quickening pace of Ban's respiration – he's panting now, harshly – and the ache in his own body. When it seems to him that neither of them can afford to wait any longer he pulls away, undoes his shorts and pushes them down. The weight shift caused by his movement makes the boat sway slightly in the water. He can feel Ban watching him. He's wrapped a hand around his own cock, pulling slowly – holding back – but his gaze was intent on Ginji, cutting through the imperfect darkness. Ginji catches hold of the side of the boat for purchase, lowering himself into position. Skin against skin, sight no longer necessary: Ban's arms sliding around his neck, Ban's cock flush and damp against the base of his stomach.

"Ban-chan," he whispers, a husk of a sound against Ban's lips. Ban kisses him back fiercely, thrusting his tongue between Ginji's teeth. He lifts his knees higher, drawing his feet caressingly against the backs of Ginji's thighs, urging him on. So Ginji takes him like that, gripping his hips for guidance and pressing in.

It feels good, like always; tight and perfect, better than good. Ban moans into Ginji's mouth, or perhaps Ginji is the one making the choked sound – he finds it impossible to tell.

He's always reluctant to cause pain, even when he knows it doesn't matter. So he takes it slow, at first; coaxes Ban's body open to accommodate his movements, each shift and motion a tortuous slice of forever. After a few moments of the settled rhythm Ban moves against him, arching his spine in a manner that's nearly wheedling.

"More," he gasps, "harder—" and on the next stroke he tightens down, like he's trying to keep Ginji from leaving his body. Ginji's thoughts lose all coherency.

"Ban-chan—"

"Fuck, Ginji—"

Ginji pushes Ban's knees up against his chest and drives into him, deep, hard thrusts that make the world tilt. Ban swears again, at the same time as his body arches up in encouragement; broken obscenities that trail away into gasps and something that might resemble Ginji, Ginji... Ginji knows more than hears that he's whispering Ban's name himself, over and over.

When Ban comes he grits his teeth and turns his head away, as always, so as not to look Ginji in the eyes. He couldn't, he said once – it's too dangerous – and Ginji thinks he understands. But Ginji feels the spasm in his body, the spreading wet heat against his own skin, and Ban's fingers tighten on his forearms to the point of pain. The connection is enough. Too much almost, too fierce, like all the lights of the city going off behind his eyes, all the stars in the sky. He slams into Ban hard, once, twice, then subsides, gasping, drained. Blood pounds in his ears; the air suddenly seems very quiet, and the sound of Ban's equally frenetic-but-slowing heartbeat marks the only other presence in the world.

His arms tighten around Ban's chest.

"Stars," Ban says in his ear, pulling him back from the edge of sleep. "If you look straight up." Ginji turns his head instinctively, brushing his lips against Ban's for a fleeting instant.

"What did you say, Ban-chan?"

"I said, get off me, I'm getting fucking pins and needles in my leg."

— Montreal, June 2004