Author: Calex
Title: Datenshi Blue
Rating: M
Notes: Wrote this after watching a fair few to many videos on YouTube. This is a little angsty and one of the characters is definitely a little broken.

He's beautiful.

It was a thought that was almost common by now, something that I've always thought whenever my eye happened to catch him through the milling crowds. It was difficult to miss him, his beauty made him stand out in a crowd. It was one of the few things that everyone could completely agree about. Lucas O'Connor was beautiful. No other adjective suited his looks better and because of that, I had noticed him receiving both favourable and unfavourable attention, and everyone knew who he was, despite the fact that for all intents and purposes, Lucas was a very private person, guarding his privacy, his space with a fierceness he rarely showed elsewhere. Moreover, there was hardly anything about him that people forgot.

One of things that stayed with him, was that in Year 4, he had been made to dress as an angel in some sort of school play. No one could deny that Lucas outshone both the leading man and lady with his silky dark hair, dark blue eyes almost black and framed by lashes so thick and long that it seemed as though he wore eyeliner. With his slender and almost fragile build at age 10, it was no wonder that many whispered of it still, of how he looked with cloud white wings and a long, flowing white robe, needing no makeup to enhance his already substantial looks.

I shouldn't know Lucas, we ran in different circles. I had my friends and we hung about pubs and bars and sat with our pints of beer, our shots of alcohol and our cigarettes, since before the law declared it legal for us to sample those vices. I was nightclubs and one night stands and the rush of flashing lights and music and the scent of pot heavy in the air. Lucas was in the Music Club and sat in parks reading Crime and Punishment or Lolita, or even Catcher in the Rye. Lucas was black framed reading glasses, Styrofoam cups of tea, drunk black with no sugar, and classical music which made his fingers twitch with the need to move over the ivory keys of a piano, or send a bow singing over the strings of a violin.

Panted moans, gasps, the arch of back. Toes digging into mussed bedsheets, hair spread on white cotton, fingers clenching dark blue bedspread. Head flung back, a lace work of blue veins decorating paper thin, fluttering lids. Mouth swollen and wet, parted as blue eyes opened fractionally, dark and hazy with lust. Crying out pleasure into the stillness of a room, body rigid, back lifted off the bed and held suspended for what seemed like forever before falling bonelessly back down.

I had a girlfriend at one time that summed up Lucas O'Connor as this: a fallen angel, untouchable and broken. I had wondered what she meant at first until I began to notice it, the sadness he carried like a cloak around him, a burden that hunched his slim shoulders, made those almost-black blue eyes so empty. It made me wonder what his story was, what made that mobile, full mouth turn down at the corners, what made his smiles not reach his eyes, what made him pull away from the people around him. And before I knew it, my eyes followed him everywhere, picking him out through thick crowds where he should have blended in with, but instead stuck out from like a sore thumb.

Lucas. I didn't know what to think about him and mostly, I didn't know why I was even thinking about him at all, at least, why I was thinking about him to the extent that I was. Always watching, always looking. Always searching. And if dark blue eyes slid over and locked on mine too many times to count, he never said anything, never did anything to bring the attention of my friends to my unexplainable fascination with him.

Back slamming against a wall, mouth meshed messily, teeth crashing in an awkward kiss but that didn't matter. Hands slipping over cloth-covered chests, sliding down stomachs, reaching between legs to caress, to fondle almost roughly, with no finesse. Bodies grinding, impatient fingers undoing buttons, pushing up shirts to bare smooth skin to hungry mouths and searching fingers. Kissing, nipping, licking. Teasing, stroking, pinching. It was madness.

I didn't want to pay so much attention to him. Didn't want to watch the back of his head during classes, bent over to his notebook, fountain pen moving steadily, calmly to write neat letters above blue lines. Didn't want to listen so intently to his quiet voice as he asked or answered a question in class, didn't want to notice that he lingered after class was over, didn't want to notice the English teacher moving towards him as the door closed, hand sliding around his slender waist and a head moving to bury itself in his neck. I didn't want to notice the mark on his neck the next day, livid red and unmistakable, didn't want to listen to the whispered gossip about him and Professor Mill, who was married with two children. Didn't want to remember the glint of gold on the fourth finger of the hand that had slid under his shirt to touch bare skin I didn't want to think would be satin soft.

The problem was, of course, that I had no control over my actions when it came to him, no control over what my eyes saw, what my ears heard. No control over my thoughts at night, lying in my bed as my hand traveled to graze over my stomach, dipping under the elastic waistband of my boxers and remembering empty blue eyes, that wide, sensual mouth, that long, slender nape. I had no control as my hand moved, cupping myself, fingers exploring the vein over my cock, rough and dry as I gripped myself, stroking an erection that had appeared from my imaginings, my memories until my back arched and my pleasurable guilt spilled over my hand.

I heard the piano by accident, hiding in one of the music rooms because I couldn't be bothered to attend lessons. Liquid notes, a heartbreaking diminuendo, the smooth ebb and flow of sound that was so clear, so painfully unmasked and vulnerable and naked in its raw pain. I couldn't breathe, sitting out of sight against a shelf full of music books. Couldn't do anything but look at the vague silhouette of his figure as he sat by the window, hands traveling with perfected ease, fingers flying over the keys, head bent. And the sight of that, of the dark fringe that had to be half-obscuring his sight, of the way white teeth bit down onto a full bottom lip. The light of midday didn't suit him, he needed to be bathed in moonlight where the shadows of broken wings would creep across the floor, invisible to human sight.

How did he ever become so broken? One so beautiful, so proud, so glacier cool, so filled with liquid grace should be put on a pedestal, not become fodder for gossip by far too curious women and sneering men with lustful eyes. How did he step down from that angel in Year 4 to this creature so far from grace? How was it that this music he played, so sorrowful, was not a triumphant crescendo that rang the roofs in almost spiritual joy? Praises and hallelujahs couldn't erase the stain he carried on him, and I fancied I could see him forced to his knees, holding humiliation in his mouth while his eyes dulled, snuffed of vivacious life.

It's too late to save him.

That was my thought as I listened to him play piece after piece of music that drag out tears long unshed from my eyes and yet I could do nothing, could not move, not speak, could barely breathe and sit in utter stillness, wrapped in the spell of his playing. And then suddenly I moved, suddenly I found my feet and walked, walked unbidden to this angel of tears and blood who played and lost sense of the world. That moment narrowed down so that it was him, me, and the music. Nothing else could penetrate the invisible walls that surrounded us. Sight and sound narrowed to warm sun, silk hair, the scent of polish and paper, cologne and sweat and grass. And he didn't stop playing, not even as I stepped to his side, entranced. Didn't stop, not until I leaned down and softness brushed against my lips, until the taste of darkness and light filled my mouth. Not until I tasted rich tea and bitter dark chocolate.

When I pulled back, he looked at me with those dark, dark, empty eyes, hands folded almost demurely in his lap. He didn't move, didn't speak, no change in expression registered. It seemed like he was used to such things happening to him and for some reason, for isome reason/i the thought bothered me more than it should. I slid my body in front of his, resting uncaringly on keys that made discordant protest against it's mistreatment. Still, he didn't move, didn't even blink and so my fingers slid through his hair (as soft as silk as I had imagined), sliding down to cup the back of his neck. And then I yanked, pulling him towards me, pouring my curiosity, my fascination, my frustration, my reluctant lust, my sadness into that kiss until all of it nearly choked me. He neither pulled me closer, nor pushed me away. In fact, he didn't move. His face still blank when I pulled back.

Frustrated, I pushed him away, running my hand through my hair, then down, unthinkingly, to stroke fingertips over lips that still tingled, that still burnt with the taste of him. There were no words between us, just his resigned sorrow and my tangled desires. The small bench screeched as it was pushed back, but I didn't bother to look up, he was just going to leave anyway. At least I didn't have to worry about him telling others, I didn't know why I was so sure of the fact but I was. My face was buried in my hands, mourning music and moonlight and healthy wings when fingers brushed over the back of my hand. I looked up, seeing blue, endless, dark blue. And then fingers trailed over my jaw, sliding to my chin before it was cupped firmly, gently, and that warm, intoxicating mouth dropped back over mine.

Smooth concave stomach, milk white skin so thin that the veins were a network of spider web. Mouth trailing down the centre of a smooth chest, nipping and licking, tongue tracing navel and quivering stomach muscles. Hands gently parting thighs, sliding teasing strokes across smooth, sensitive skin. A mouth tasting the skin behind a knee, then the next, then a tongue sliding up his thigh, dangerously close to his groin. Quiet moans thickened the air along with the scent and tension of lust, gasps as a hand smoothed up the chest, fingers encircling pink nipples, tugging them into hard peaks. Mouth lowered, teasing at a burgeoning erection and breathless cries rang out.

An arm around my waist, hand sliding under my shirt to press against the small of my back, pushing me flush against his body. Mine hovered by my sides before sliding up his arms, one hooking around his neck, the other tracing the smooth muscles of his back. His mouth fastened to mine, he slid the hand on my chin down, urging my leg to wrap around his waist, pressing our clothed erections together, teasing me with little circular motions of his hips until he had me gasping, nails digging into warm skin.

Then he gave me a little push, our lips separating almost painfully, reluctance heavy on my part. I stare wide eyed, panting still from the ferocity of the kiss as he kissed my neck, slowly unbuttoning my shirt, trailing his lips on my chest, tongue flicking my nipples, teeth nipping so that there was just that jolt of pain mixed with pleasure and I cried out. A hand sank into his hair, fingers threading through soft, dark strands as he continued to lave attention to my chest, while his hands smoothed over my sides, gripped my hips, traced my back and finally, finally palming me over the heavy material of my trousers.

I groaned, hips involuntarily thrusting towards that touch, before his lips trailed lower, lower until his tongue was tracing the lines of my stomach. He was on his knees now, long lashes casting shadows on high cheekbones, and that profile was as beautiful as ever, but still so remote. It was the remoteness that bothered me, even while a voice in my mind told me to “pay attention!” as he slowly, teasingly unbuttoned my trousers, looking up briefly to glance at me as he moved in, gripping the zipper with his teeth and tugging it down, nose brushing against my cock. I gasped, gripping his hair even as he palms ran it’s way up my legs to my hips, before warm fingers dipped underneath my waistband and pulled down, bringing my underwear with it.

The feel of the cool air against my hardness made me gasp again, and yet again as his hand wrapped around me, softer than my own but still callused in that way that most boys’ hands were. He stroked me, slowly, teasingly, breathing almost too hot breath against me until my gasps bled into moans. And then he swallowed me down, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock and I was pulled into that warm, wet, suctioning heat that made me lose my mind.

I cried out as he moved over me, tongue, teeth and lips all moving to drive me insane, to drive me closer and closer towards that edge until I was teetering over the edge of the precipice. I gripped his hair, trying to force him away, while breathless pleas and entreaties fell unbidden from my lips, a marked contrast from my actions and I shivered, stiffened before I came, spilling down his throat and watching with unsated hunger as he pulled back, swallowing. I reached out a hand, thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth to wipe what of me he couldn’t swallow, watched as those eyes looked up at me, a flicker of something I could not name in what was previously so blank.

I reached for him, intending to pull him up so that I could kiss those lips, so I that I could taste our mingled flavours but he pulled back, almost recoiled from that almost instance of my touch and glanced away, eyes half shuttered close so that those lace-like lashes still cast shadows and hid his eyes from view. He was on his knees still and I was half lying on the piano, spent cock bared to the cold and still air of the soundproof room and suddenly I felt nothing but dirty, nothing but unclean and dissatisfied and tried to reach for him again only to watch as he flinched and pulled back, stood and needlessly straightened clothes that had remained perfect throughout. His voice when he spoke was quiet and inflectionless, and he did not meet my gaze, and at his words I was thankful for it, thankful that he could not see my expression.

“That should be enough for you, right? Or do you want to fuck me too?”

If I had felt dirty before it was nothing compared to how I felt then, felt the pleasure that had twisted my gut turn into a bastardized form of what it had been, guilt and despair and nausea choking me until I thought I would sully his imperfect perfection not with my release but with the contents of my stomach. Hands I hated to see were shaky set myself to rights, pushed my hair out of my face and then I left without a backwards glance, back stiffened and straight. Before the door closed shut behind me I heard the strains of music start up again and I quickened my steps, moving away from that place, that place which will now forever hold memories for me of fallen angels and beautiful boys with sinfully luscious lips and red hot guilt and disgust.