XES

They don't have sex. He's adamant about that when they met; Sex is too lose a word for what I do to you, Hijikata-hime - he's not quite sure why those words stick to the back of his head like dirt under nails, but they do - so it’s not sex.

But, sometimes, mostly (lately) - it feels like "just sex". Yes, his skin still burns like an overheated oven left on too long, and yes, it's still intense - harsh and wonderful and mind numbing - but it's not foreplay and sparks and hours of back to sweaty chest cuddles anymore.

It's rushed. Hands and teeth and slick fingers easing their way into a place fingers don't normally belong.

And rushed isn't bad - it’s cold.

There's no coy flirting and halfhearted augments that turn into halfhearted fist fights that turn into hot (hot, hot, hot) throbbing - pulsing - heat filling him (stuffing him like a knuckle pushing its bonds and plunging into a warm, wet mouth).

And honest, those things aren't what he misses (they were gone before he noticed), it's the look - the one that burns like a fire to wood, leaving him speechless, flushed, needy.

He notices (noticed) when that look left - died, stopped to be solely used on him. It was a Monday (he hated those not just after the look left, but always), unusually sunny, warm - not humid or a stray breeze disturbing the still air once or twice - just warm. He had been shrugging off his jacket (he was never good with warmth, too soothing - safe) when he saw it. Well, not it, per say, but them.

A million things pass through his mind: yelling, barfing, flipping the bird, looking away - pretending he never saw - pulling out his hair, starting a fight...crying. He does none though - it's too much. Too much to compute at once, so he doesn't. He just looks in from the outside (that’s what he was now, huh? an outsider) as he gives her his stare - the one only meant for him. The one that means it’s not just sex.