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I Must Be a Light	By : xRIiFTBx Category: +S through Z > Tales of Vesperia Views: 1733 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Vesperia, Tales of Vesperia: The First Strike, or any of the characters of either, and I did not make any money from the writing of this work.

Chapter List
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A/N: I've been busy and forgot to update - sorry! I hope it's worth the wait. I brought you a little treat. ;D I love a little CC, so R&R if you have the time and/or suggestions!

The whole time they'd been talking, Flynn had been thinking of how to present something entirely different to his mother, as well. He knew that she owned the small house they'd moved into, upon coming to the quarter – they paid no rent, and owed no mortgage. She'd bought it outright, with the bulk of their saved assets. In addition, being a frequent visitor to Yuri's room had given Flynn a pretty good idea of how little space his friend was capable of living in; for a time, they could share a room and probably not even notice each other, though the blond wasn't sure whether to suggest that, or that one of them make sleeping arrangements in the front living area of the tiny house. Not having to pay rent to the inn would greatly lessen Yuri's burden, and if they both managed to pull some income into the house, it would improve the quality of life for all three.
Flynn had never been good at articulating these kinds of ideas. Presenting a persuasive argument wasn't really in his primary skill set; he was unused to breaking new ground, operating outside of established boundaries – and this was certainly that.
So it was that long after they'd laid down, long after Yuri's breathing had deepened and slowed, Flynn was still watching shadows creep across the ceiling, his mind following spiral paths to dead ends and branching off into ideas, arguments, and memories in increasingly random-seeming leaps of association. However he glared at the back of his eyelids, they always reopened to the same lines of dark and light spreading across the gray backdrop above.
Then, a rustle made him startle and look over to the other young man. Yuri was rubbing blearily at his face, sitting up and blinking tiredly, his features dimly lit by the glow from street lamps outside and below the windows. He glanced over at the loaned futon with a slight frown, then shook his head, as if to rattle loose the last scraps of sleep-haze, before rising and pulling his trousers and tunic on clumsily. With a heavy sigh, he stepped out of his room and pulled the door closed behind him, and his steps began down the stairs outside, most likely to the out-building and low wash facility on the ground level behind the inn.
But here was an opportunity to quiet his overactive mind. With a sigh of his own, Flynn cast about for one of the rags brought into the room earlier – something about physical release seemed always to soothe him, and made the transition to true sleep smoother and easier. Laying hands on the forgotten, tossed-aside rag that Yuri had used to clean up his bloody nose, the blond nodded to himself and laid back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.
It didn't take much – a quick warming, a few soft, encouraging strokes of his palm – to awaken his interest. It had been a little while, after all, and his flesh was eager. Nevertheless, he spared a brief moment of hesitation, a few seconds of delay on what must, of necessity, be a rather hasty operation, to half-savor the early pangs of arousal. Then, with a slow exhalation, he took hold of himself, fingers encircling velvety-soft skin and, after a brief squeeze, began to build a light, sliding rhythm of strokes.
In this time, he was never sure what he was thinking about. He'd heard some of his cruder peers swap imagery – the pale skin or round breasts or hips of a popular lady, particular acts that had interested or excited them in the past, whether real or imagined, witnessed or experienced – but for him, thoughts always seemed to descend into two-inch-square swatches of texture and short flickers of movement, tiny scraps of unattached sensation. True, sometimes he relished in an image of pale skin, but other times, it was a silky glint of long hair, an affecting but unrecognized smile or laugh, the remembered feeling of a warm look, the imagined softness of lips against his own skin, and... and...
From behind closed lids, he could sense that the quality of light in the room had changed, and just like that, he was derailed. So close. But when his eyes snapped open, blanket already tugged back over his hips, all he saw was a sliver of light brightening a narrow slice of floor from the door, which seemed to have fallen ajar. Worrying at his lower lip, Flynn's brow knit indecisively for a few seconds. When no sound or movement showed any presence near the door, though, he sighed his relief and continued his work, eyes drifting closed again, returning to that place of small, sweet, comforting images and half-remembered sounds. He arched, shifted, the sound of his breathing checked slightly by the lower lip still between his teeth, but some tension pulled it slowly loose, and his lips parted with a ragged sigh as his hips tilted subtly upward, drawn forward by a low, throbbing sensation that rocked him, greedily drawing the energy from his body to sustain itself, and his eyes lazed partly open. He inhaled slowly –
There was a figure, leaning dark and slender against the doorway. Arms crossed, one ankle draped lazily across and behind the other, that long, black hair with the strange purple shimmer in the backlight – a little disheveled. The fall of shadows across his face obscured his expression, hid the look in his eyes, but the direction of his gaze was unmistakable. Silent as stone, Yuri was watching him, and for a moment, Flynn was frozen, only the soft echoes of sensation rippling through him and the deafening beat of his own heart reminding him that time still passed. Then, breaking free of his shocked stillness, a trembling hand took up the rag that he'd found, and he wiped himself off shakily, wide, blue eyes trained on that silhouette as he set the rag aside and yanked the blanket back up over his hips – hell, to his neck – mortified. The warm flush that had arisen with his exertions was now a burning brand of embarrassment, but still Yuri stood in the doorway, silent, impassive – with no change in his posture to signify any acknowledgment of the events that had just unfolded before him. He stood there for a while – seconds? Minutes? – just looking. Flynn, likewise, was held in arrest, watching the other... Just watching Yuri watch him. A breathless age passed before he was able to tear his eyes away, to turn away from the door and stare wide-eyed at the wall. Every sound seemed amplified by the rush of anxiety in his ears (though, if asked, he couldn't have said what he was afraid of, precisely.) As though the turn were some kind of cue, he could hear the other tall youth, as he stood away from the door frame and stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. It was with unhurried steps and calm movements that he crossed over to his own futon and undressed, before climbing wordlessly beneath his blanket.
From the slowing rhythm of his breathing, Yuri fell asleep first, again, leaving Flynn to stare once more at the ceiling – this time, at a loss for any thought at all.
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I Must Be a Light