Territory
by Hth


	Kinomoto Touya has always seemed older than he really was -- as 
long as Yukito has known him, that is.  That's not just Yukito's 
opinion; he's heard other people say it, students and grown-ups as 
well.  At seventeen, Touya is taller than most of the teachers at their 
school, and it's not a weedy, adolescent height, either.  He's wide-
shouldered, lean but solid, and strangers treat him like a man.  To 
Yukito, who is the same age but is still sure when he looks in the 
mirror that there's a wide-eyed, nervous child staring back at him, 
this is amazing.
	But the matter of Touya's apparent age, Yukito knows, is only 
compounded by his early physical maturity, not composed of it.  Yukito 
remembers the first time he saw Touya, remembers it so vividly that 
sometimes he thinks that if he tried he could simply step into that 
memory, like stepping onto a stage and taking his place in a well-
rehearsed drama.  Touya was a head shorter then and a great deal 
skinnier; no one would ever have mistaken him for anything but a 
schoolboy.  But even then, Yukito had simply assumed that he was an 
older student, because of his eyes, which are -- again, and this is a 
word that occurs to Yukito over and over when he thinks of Touya -- 
amazing.  Just amazing.  They make Yukito forget everything.
	From the very first day, Touya's eyes had that power.  The first 
day at a new school hadn't gone easily for Yukito, and by afternoon he 
felt as though his smile were burnt into his face, painful and 
permanent.  No one was unkind, but it was so...much.  Faces, voices, 
directions, instructions, so many things to receive passively and try 
to remember, so few things to be sure of.  Had he arrived in the middle 
of a term, perhaps the other students, or at least the teachers, would 
have recognized his confusion and taken pity on him, but on the first 
day of school, they were all too busy with their own process of 
orienting to notice Yukito at all.  Hour by hour, he became more 
invisible, and happier to be that way.  If he could have evaporated 
into nothing, that would have been nearly perfect.
	It was neither chance nor fate that brought them together, just 
the prosaic fact that his grandparents' new house was west of the 
school, and his route walking home took Yukito past the mesh fence of 
the schoolyard.  He was still smiling, smiling blindly and miserably, 
because it would be even worse for anyone to see him rushing home from 
school with his eyes on the ground and his heart on top of his chest.  
Yukito is gentle, but it isn't only bullies and braggarts who have 
pride, even at fifteen.
	With his head high and his eyes unclouded, smile still in place, 
it would have been impossible not to see the soccer team practicing, 
and if his gaze hadn't landed directly on Touya that day, it would have 
happened the next, or a few days down the road.  Nothing mystical about 
it, except that it felt that way.  It felt like magic.
	One boy -- older boy, Yukito thought, upperclassman -- switching 
out with a teammate, walking confidently off the field so that he 
happened to be facing away from the action, out toward the street where 
Yukito stood, riveted to the spot, his feet sticking where they last 
fell.  One boy, the one person all day long, who looked at Yukito and 
didn't pass him over, but kept looking, his handsome face unreadable, 
his blue eyes intent and boldly curious.  And for the first time all 
day long, Yukito felt his tortured smile slip away, until he was 
looking back without masks or costumes, returning interest for 
interest.  One honest moment.
	And then Yukito felt his face begin to grow hot, and knew that he 
was blushing.  It was embarrassing, *mortifying,* really, to be caught 
like this, so nakedly observing not the soccer game, but one handsome 
soccer player.  The blush, of course, could only make things worse, 
because now he couldn't even hope that his gaze would be misinterpreted 
as absent-minded or casual.
	The fine thread of an expression disrupted that calm severity in 
the boy's eyes and on his face; he smiled at Yukito, just slightly, and 
then lifted up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and 
neck.  Yukito felt a thin, burning pain in his hand and realized he was 
digging it into the wire fence, enthralled by the leisurely revelation 
of smooth skin, all but shattered by the sudden feeling that if he 
wrapped an arm around that narrow waist it would be feverishly warm to 
the touch, damp and agonizingly solid.  Something real.  Something to 
be sure of.  Yukito pulled his hand back, and saw that the crisscrossed 
pattern was impressed in red on the pale skin of his palm.
	He ran.  It wasn't brave, but he had to get away from the riot of 
feelings, and he thought it might be possible to outrace them.
	Yukito ran all the way home, and when he got there he discovered 
that while it was possible to be too tired to feel anything, the 
sensations seemed to come back just as soon as exhaustion receded.  All 
evening, the image of that boy at the edge of the soccer field, with 
his striking eyes and his lithe, sweat-sheened body, hovered just 
outside the circumference of his conscious thoughts, making Yukito very 
glad that the homework given on the first day of school was never very 
difficult.
	He had a dream that night, most of which he had forgotten by 
morning, but here and there, a few details stay with him, are as vivid 
and gripping when Yukito thinks of them now as they were as he woke 
gasping and twisting in his bed.  He remembers the overpowering smell 
of fresh-cut grass, and the boy's face, stern but somehow compassionate 
as well, hovering close to his.  He remembers a sense of 
weightlessness, and a rain of soft, white feathers falling all around 
them, making him shiver as they brushed over exposed skin along 
Yukito's shoulders and back.  He woke with tears on his face, almost 
heartbroken by the sheer beauty of the dream.  It is the first dream 
that Yukito can clearly remember having; he thinks there may have been 
others from his childhood that he once remembered, but they are lost 
now.
	At school the next day, Yukito was both significantly calmer and 
somehow energized, filled with a welcome sense of purpose.  He wove his 
questions artfully into a dozen innocent conversations, and while at 
the time all that Yukito realized was that he was gathering 
information, in retrospect he sees himself planting the seeds of many 
future friendships, and a lasting reputation for warmth, 
approachability, and curiosity.  It was a good day.
	Yukito's soccer player, of course, was Kinomoto Touya -- who 
else?  Yukito smiles, now, to think of how the name struck his ear when 
it was new, how rare and unbelievable it seemed, where now the sound of 
it is as comfortable and familiar as his grandmother's cooking.  He was 
younger than Yukito had imagined; several of his new acquaintances had 
fond memories of Touya's sixteenth birthday party, only two months ago.  
He seemed to Yukito to be well-liked, but at the same time oddly 
distant, everyone's friend and no one's.  Different people were 
impressed by different details -- this one said that his grades were 
good, that one knew how many goals he'd scored against a rival school, 
a girl mentioned with mingled pity and hunger in her eyes that poor 
Touya had no mother anymore, wasn't it terrible?  Another boy said that 
everyone said Touya had a girlfriend, an *older* girlfriend, not even a 
student, but the girl that Yukito spoke to after that laughed at the 
idea and opined that Touya's unseen sweetheart was a polite fiction to 
avoid offending the many starry-eyed girls who pursued him.
	Thinking of that little smile, and the slow flash of his stomach 
as Touya lifted his shirt, Yukito thought he might have an idea as to 
why Touya would find such a cover story useful.  Yukito just smiled, 
feeling both bold and clever, feeling as though he knew everything in 
the world now.
	And he went back to the soccer field that afternoon, not to gawk, 
but to introduce himself to the teacher and ask if he might be of use 
to the team, maybe as an equipment manager.  Only after he'd secured 
the position did Yukito dare to glance around at the players, and he 
was simultaneously startled and not surprised at all to see Touya 
watching him, a little smile of wry approval curving his mouth.  Yukito 
smiled back, sweetly.
	A series of firsts occurred that afternoon -- Touya's first words 
to him after practice ("Oi, you want some help with that?"), his first 
trip to the Kinomoto house for dinner with Touya, his father, and his 
adorable little sister, and somewhere in between those two, the most 
memorable: first kiss, pressed up against the wooden wall of the 
equipment shed, slipping his fingers under Touya's shirt to feel the 
smooth bulbs of bone that made up his spine.
	After dinner, Touya walked him halfway back to his own house, 
both of them with hands in their pockets against an unseasonal late-
spring chill in the air.  Yukito confessed all the details of the day's 
fact-finding mission, and ended it by admitting, only somewhat 
apologetically, "I want to know everything about you."
	Touya smiled a little at that.  "Where do you get the idea that 
I'm so interesting?"
	"I like the way you kiss."  Yukito is amazed, looking back, that 
the boy he was at fifteen could find the courage to say something like 
that.
	"Do you?" Touya asked blandly, and then put his hand on Yukito's 
arm to stop him in the middle of the dark street, swooping in for a 
short, jarringly pleasurable kiss.  When his lips moved away from 
Yukito's, his tongue didn't quite, so that for a moment he was 
lingering with his tongue smoothing tantalizingly back and forth just 
at the inner edge of Yukito's bottom lip.  Yukito whimpered a little 
when it ended, and opened his eyes to see Touya standing casually on 
the sidewalk, hands back in his pockets.  "Let's do this again 
sometime," he offered, and Yukito made himself nod, not sure if Touya 
meant dinner or kissing, but knowing that the answer was the same 
either way.
	It turned out that Touya meant both.  He knew a startling number 
of concealed locations in and around the school, and he was utterly 
fearless about seizing even short intervals of free time.  Yukito 
poured nervous energy into his schoolwork, but shot through all his 
industriousness was a constant colorful ribbon of anticipation.  Just 
when Yukito thought he couldn't bear it any longer, he would arrive at 
his next class and discover a slip of paper jutting out of his textbook 
with "2:40, third floor chemistry lab" written in Touya's heavy hand, 
and he would work all the harder in that class, because the alternative 
was letting himself think an hour or two ahead to Touya's strong hands 
cupping his face and the ragged grunting noises Touya made when Yukito 
nibbled along the side of his neck, and if he thought too much about 
that, he'd go utterly insane as the clock counted off each tedious 
minute until 2:40.
	On the whole, Touya was good for Yukito's education from the very 
beginning; aside from the workaholic fervor he inspired in Yukito 
during school hours, he was an excellent after-school tutor.  Touya 
thought in clear, direct lines, and he explained things the same way, 
so that you couldn't help but understand.  He also knew all of Yukito's 
teachers, and had unfailing insight as to what would impress this one 
most in an essay, or when that one was likely to be planning an 
unannounced exam.  They always studied together for at least an hour 
after dinner, when Yukito came to visit, and consequently Yukito didn't 
experience the slump in his marks that he half-anticipated as a result 
of adjusting to a new school.
	And then, of course, there was Yukito's other education.  Touya 
seemed to know everything about that, too.  Maybe a little more than 
Yukito really wanted him to know, in point of actual fact.  They'd only 
been together for three weeks when deep, exploratory kisses turned into 
something that felt dangerous, rich with the potential to overturn 
everything Yukito thought he knew.  He couldn't breathe, pinned beneath 
Touya's body, fully clothed but feeling horribly exposed as Touya 
gripped his hair, bit his shoulder, ground down so hard against Yukito 
that it felt as though Yukito's body would have to break apart to 
accommodate his insistence.
	"Stop," Yukito gasped.  "Please, Touya, stop."
	He slowed first, and then went utterly still, lifting his head to 
glare balefully at Yukito.  "What's wrong?"
	"I -- I -- it's too fast.  Please, I -- we can't."
	Touya slid his hands beneath Yukito, pulling his hips flush 
against Touya's own.  "You don't like it?" he asked, and his eyes were 
glittering, his voice daring Yukito to lie, with the evidence against 
him so obvious to the touch.
	It was enthralling, that strange, predatory look on Touya's 
handsome features, attractive and disturbing at the same time.  Yukito 
had to close his eyes against it.  "I didn't say that I didn't like it.  
I said that I wanted to stop."
	The stillness was oppressive, so quiet that Yukito could hear his 
own labored swallowing as though it were louder than thunder.  Finally, 
a fingertip stroked Yukito's cheek delicately.  "You've never done this 
before, have you?"
	Both embarrassed and relieved to have the truth out, Yukito said, 
"You're the only person I've even kissed before."
	Suddenly Touya's weight wasn't on top of him anymore.  Yukito 
opened his eyes to see Touya sitting on the edge of the bed, facing 
away from him.  "I don't really know anything about virgins."
	Hesitantly, Yukito reached out and traced his fingers down 
Touya's stiff back.  "If you'd known this from the beginning, would you 
have kissed me in the equipment shed?"
	After a moment, Touya looked over his shoulder at Yukito, his 
scowl softening.  "Yeah -- maybe.  Probably.  You're...."  His hand 
stroked across the length of Yukito's body, six inches away from his 
skin.   "You have this kind of...special look."
	It seemed like a compliment, even though Yukito didn't quite 
understand it.  Later on, he would tease Touya about that -- *a special 
look* -- and Touya, infinitely more comfortable with Yukito now than he 
was three weeks after they'd met, would just raise his eyebrows 
slightly and say, "Just one of those things I see sometimes.  Have a 
little faith, Yuki."
	"Do you want me to leave?" Yukito offered humbly.
	"I'll walk you home."
	Touya did, and at the halfway point where their paths diverged, 
he gave Yukito a quick, chaste goodnight kiss.  "Sorry," he said 
gruffly.  "I'm just...um....  Sorry."
	"I really like you, Touya."
	He looked faintly surprised, but he said, "Well, I like you, too.  
Obviously."
	"It's not so obvious," Yukito said gently, "when you act like 
this."
	Touya hung his head.  "I'm sorry, Yukito."
	He was, and Yukito knew it.  He forgave Touya in that moment, 
although instead of telling him so, Yukito said, "Why are you with me?  
Are you even with me?"
	"Of course I'm with you."  Touya sounded genuinely puzzled by the 
question.  "Don't you -- aren't you -- with me?"
	Yukito reached for his hand, and squeezed it lightly.  Touya 
watched the gesture in apparent fascination.  "I am.  I am, as long as 
you don't mind--"
	"I'll wait," Touya said quickly.  "I can wait."  Yukito nodded 
and smiled, and it wasn't until he was home in his own bedroom that he 
thought back on that flash of fire in Touya's eyes, that determination, 
and it almost frightened him, because he believed in it completely.  
Touya would wait as long as he had to wait, because 
he...liked...Yukito.  He'd gotten a small scare tonight, seen that 
Yukito could walk away any time he wanted to (well, anytime he *needed* 
to, anyway; Yukito understood even then that he was too deeply entwined 
to surrender Touya on a whim), and Touya didn't like it one bit.
	Yukito fell into bed, feeling tense and giddy and much too shot 
through with adrenaline to sleep.  Touya liked him.  Touya liked him.  
For the first time since that endless moment by the fence, Yukito 
believed that there was something magical about all of this.
	The next day, Touya was on the steps of the school when Yukito 
arrived, listening to his Walkman and waving at his friends as they 
passed one by one.  Yukito waved, too, but instead of waving back, 
Touya stood up and fell into step with him -- effectively in step 
anyway, Touya's long-legged gait matched in speed to Yukito's quick 
trotting.  "Walk you to class?" he said.
	"Sure," Yukito responded automatically, and then, "But why?"
	"Because...."  Touya thought for a moment and then said, "Because 
my mother gave me hell for not being a gentleman last night."
	"But...isn't--?"
	"Yes, she is."  Touya grinned at him, making Yukito feel lost and 
dizzy, but in a nice way.  "Forget it, Yukito, I'm kidding.  I just 
thought we could walk together.  You know, like friends?"
	Friends.  He didn't want to say that Touya was his first real 
friend, maybe the only friend he's ever had.  Yukito doesn't think he's 
ever gotten around to saying that, but by now he's sure that Touya 
knows it, just as Yukito knows that he's the only person outside of 
Touya's family who has ever had a place inside Touya's heart -- his 
only friend, too, in a way.
	Being Touya's friend is as simple as eating off his plate at 
lunch, and it's as complicated as the winding route Touya takes to 
school now, passing by Yukito's house on the way, even though it's not 
on the way.  Being Touya's friend is about babysitting duty and 
debating the merits of various bicycles they almost have enough money 
saved to buy, about going to baseball games and missing their stop on 
the subway and borrowing Touya's manga and Touya borrowing his good tie 
for a job interview.  It's as public as the way that when the soccer 
team stays out of town overnight for a tournament, the coach assigns 
Yukito and Touya to the same hotel room without bothering to ask, and 
as private as the way Touya knocks him off the bed that night by 
tickling him, or the way Touya picks him up off the floor and tucks him 
back in with a kiss.
	It's those kisses that make all the difference, that velvet-and-
volcano way that Touya kisses, slow and primal.  With each of those 
kisses -- now, just like back then -- Yukito is reminded that there is 
only one Touya.  That the same Kinomoto Touya who is his best friend, 
witty and pragmatic and kind-hearted but short-tempered, that familiar 
Touya is the same dark stranger who smashed Yukito's world apart with a 
glance, who can seduce him into making out in the equipment shed with a 
line like "You want some help with that?"  All the things Yukito feels 
for Touya seem to come together when Touya kisses him, the adoration 
that feels like a rain of feathers on his skin and the desire that 
feels like a rain of lit matches.  
	But none of it had a name until the end of the summer, when Touya 
pulled him under the bleachers after morning practice and before their 
first class, reeling Yukito almost roughly into his arm and burying his 
face in Yukito's neck so that his "I love you" came out muffled.
	"You have to change clothes," Yukito reminded him, defaulting to 
the banal because the truth of where they were at that moment seemed 
too large to take into account.  "Touya, you -- you need a shower...."
	Touya's body jerked in a short, silent laugh.  "Your poor, 
delicate nose," he said, tongue flashing into Yukito's ear, then 
disappearing.
	"It's not that."  And it wasn't; Yukito liked the way Touya 
smelled after practice, wet and salty and meaty.  He didn't know 
exactly what it was, so he kissed Touya to end the conversation.
	It wasn't until sometime around lunch that Yukito really heard 
the words that had been replaying on an endless loop in his memory and 
accepted them.  Touya loved him.  Touya loved him.
	*Kinomoto Touya.* *I love you.* These are words and concepts that 
Yukito touches almost daily now, but he still remembers when they were 
uncharted territory.
	That night, after dinner and studying, Touya rode all the way 
back to Yukito's house with him.  Yukito can remember, so perfectly, 
how clear the sky was, and how he thought he could see starlight 
sparkling in Touya's hair, even though it was probably the ordinary, 
unromantic lights of Tokyo in the distance.  Touya leaned casually 
forward across the handlebars of his bike, his feet brushing the 
ground, and Yukito remembers the thrill it sent through him just to 
reach out and cover Touya's hand with his, almost like it was the first 
time.  "I love you, too," he said.
	Touya gave him one of his rare wide grins.  "Took you long 
enough."
	"You surprised me."
	"Didn't you know already?"  Yukito shook his head.  "Well...now 
you know."
	"I want to give you something," Yukito said, and they walked 
their bikes up the path, then left them there while Yukito drew Touya 
over to the rosebushes and snapped one off for him, laying it in 
Touya's hands.  He held it gingerly, as though afraid it would burst 
apart in a cloud of dew, and Yukito leaned down to smell the pink 
flower, and then tilted his head to kiss Touya's hand.
	Touya dropped the rose and cupped his hands around the back of 
Yukito's head instead.  "I want you to give me more than flowers," he 
said roughly, his eyes closed down to bare slits.  "I want...."  He 
slid his hand down Yukito's chest, either to complete his sentence or 
to avoid completing it.
	Yukito shivered, folding both his hands over Touya's one broad 
one, holding them near Yukito's heart.  "There's nothing I wouldn't 
give you," he whispered fiercely, and then, more gently, "As long as 
the time is right."
	He made one of those sweetly Touya sounds, half grunt and half 
laugh.  "And it's not yet, is that what you're saying?"
	It wasn't, quite, but Yukito still remembers that night, 
partially because of the way the smell of the grass reminded him of his 
dream when Touya kissed him with such unexpected force that it bore 
both of them down to the ground.  He remembers getting dizzy as they 
rolled together, Touya's luminous eyes and star-dappled hair closing 
down on him from above one moment, pushing his tongue downward into 
Touya's open mouth the next, with Touya's fingers tugging hard enough 
on the tail of his shirt to pull the collar backward, hard against 
Yukito's throat.  He remembers how Touya's familiar voice seemed to 
melt and run in liquid form all over Yukito's shivering skin as he 
said, "Hai, hai, Yuki, please....  Want you, ah, I love you, want your 
body...."
	"Shhh," Yukito said, pressing his finger to Touya's lips.  He 
stripped off Touya's shirt, and Touya didn't complain at all about 
lying half-dressed in the cold grass and moist dirt.  Yukito reached 
for the fallen rose.  "Do you think we'll always be together, To-ya?"  
He didn't know quite why he pronounced the name that way, except that 
Touya had called him *Yuki,* and it felt as though they should be equal 
in this, in everything.
	"You know, I would probably say pretty much anything you wanted 
to hear, if I thought it would get those clothes off of you," Touya 
growled.
	"You would never lie to me," Yukito said blithely, leaning over 
Touya to kiss his forehead.
	Touya's fingers tightened on the small of his back.  "I hope we 
will," he said simply, the perfect truth.  Yukito had learned to expect 
nothing more and nothing less from Touya.
	Satisfied, Yukito sat back, finding a position astride Touya's 
hips that was comfortable for him, probably something other than 
*comfortable* for Touya, and began to brush the petals of the rose back 
and forth across Touya's chest.  The taut lines of Touya's body went 
immediately slack, and his arms sprawled out above his head, the back 
of his left hand resting on the inside of his right forearm.  Yukito 
drew the rose down that artfully dropped arm, and all the way down his 
side until it stopped at the waistband of Touya's jeans.  "Hold 
still...."
	"What are you doing?" Touya said muzzily, beginning to lift his 
head.  It fell back as his body arched upward when Yukito moved back so 
that his hands could glide together and meet over the front of Touya's 
jeans.  "What are you *doing?*" he said again, and it sounded like a 
plea.
	"Trust me?" Yukito asked, and Touya nodded, a little reluctantly.  
Yukito crushed the rose between his hands and let the severed petals 
fall like a rain of feathers, trembling on Touya's skin.  Yukito rubbed 
one in slow circles over one of Touya's nipples, and watched him bite 
down hard on his own lip, his eyes pressed tightly together.  Yukito 
touched his cheek soothingly, and Touya turned his face into the touch, 
kissing Yukito's hand.
	Touya makes Yukito fearless; it's the only explanation Yukito can 
think of, when he remembers all the mad things he's done in the heat of 
the moment, all the places he's gone to because logic is one thing, but 
he longs for Kinomoto Touya and has ever since the moment Yukito laid 
eyes on him.  It's been two years, and Yukito blushes when he thinks of 
himself as he was at fifteen-and-a-half, inexplicably brave and 
impossibly knowledgeable.  He can still hear the apparently endless 
snore of the zipper on Touya's jeans as he lowered it with slow care, 
but what happened after that is blurred together in his memory with all 
the other times he's done the same thing since.  He's grown blase, but 
sometimes he still thinks about it, realizes that he went down on Touya 
for the very first time in his grandparents' front yard, hidden in the 
shadow of the rose bushes, and he shakes his head in amazement.  The 
things Touya does to him are *amazing.* The person Touya has made 
him...is maybe a little bit amazing, too.
	"You didn't have to," Touya murmured uncertainly as they lay 
spooned up against each other in the muddy grass, the backs of his 
knuckles brushing softly back and forth over Yukito's parted lips.  "I 
didn't mean to make you."
	"How could you make me?" Yukito asked, honestly curious.  He felt 
Touya shrug.  "You wanted me to."
	That time, he felt the jerk of Touya's short laugh.  "Of course 
I....  But...."
	"I love you," Yukito whispered, and then, as if to make up for 
that morning -- only that morning, though it felt like weeks ago -- he 
said it over and over again, bending the grass with his breath.  "I 
love you, I love you, I love you, To-ya, I love you...."
	Up in his room, Yukito noticed that he had a rose petal caught in 
his hair.  He pulled it carefully free, and in fact he still has that 
petal, dried but still fragrant, nestled between pages 372 and 373 of 
his tenth-grade algebra book.
	For his birthday, Touya gave him a three-layer cake, a new 
watchband, and a key to the Kinomotos' front door.  "Don't mention it 
to my dad," he said into Yukito's ear, then kissed his cheek.  Yukito 
tried to argue -- Mr. Kinomoto had been so kind to him, and it seemed a 
shame to pay him back by keeping secrets -- but Touya's put a 
possessive hand on his waist, and somehow that seemed like a convincing 
counter-argument.  So Yukito leaned back against him, thinking that 
Touya seemed to have gotten taller in the past six months, and thanked 
him.
	He did mention it again, later that night as he fingered the key 
on its chain.  "Doesn't it seem a little wrong?  It is your father's 
house."
	Touya's finger wound itself up in the chain, then crept up along 
Yukito's palm, insinuating itself between two of his fingers, a casual 
touch that was oddly erotic at the same time.  "Think of it this way, 
then: It's not a key to the house.  It's a key to get into my room, 
which is *mine,* and what's mine is yours.  I'd have to be crazy to 
give you a key to the kitchen, wouldn't I?" he teased, jerking Yukito 
down over him by the shoulders until their noses brushed together.
	Yukito laughed and kissed him, one hand on the bed to steady 
himself, the other hand running through Touya's hair.  "You won't get 
angry with me if I show up without an invitation?"
	Touya rolled his eyes.  "You," he said firmly, taking a grip on 
Yukito's waist and pulling him more snugly against his own body, "own 
this whole place anyway."  Yukito put his head down on Touya's chest, 
listening to the slightly accelerated beat of his heart, knowing that 
Touya was referring to a territory of somewhat less square footage than 
the house, but infinitely more valuable.