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Nothing More, Nothing Less	By : Lykomancer Category: Naruto > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 978 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. My fanwriting is for entertainment purposes only, never for profit.

Chapter List
- 1-Nothing More, Nothing Less
- 1
In the dim light that filtered into the room from under the cracks of the
poorly hung bamboo shades, the long dark hair spread over the pillows looked
like freshly spilled ink, wet as the rain that pattered in an unsteady rhythm
against the window.

Jiraiya took another drink from the mostly empty glass and told himself again
that this wasn�t what it looked like. It wasn�t what it was.

It wasn�t about sexual attraction or desire.

Jiraiya wasn�t interested in men, not like that, and for all of his
peculiar effeminate idiosyncrasies, Orochimaru was still male.

(This was obvious to Jiraiya now, after so many years, but when they�d been
children, it�d taken most of their first year as a team for him to fully accept
Orochimaru as such� before then, he�d considered him an anomaly, a third sex
that had the characteristics of both others but was neither properly male or
female, something strange, in a class of his own.)

The bedsheets tangled taut around slim hips and rippled down to outline long
legs; the white fabric was barely paler than the smooth, hairless skin it
covered.

It was not about aesthetics.

The clean cut of Orochimaru�s profile possessed an aristocratic haughtiness
even when in repose.

He was not beautiful, Jiraiya thought again. His nose was too strong; his jaw
too narrow and the angle of his cheekbones too sharp.

His smiles were lies and insults, rarely genuine; the artful turn of his head
and feather-fall of his hair smacked of vanity and artifice; the sweep of long
lashes downward to hood gleaming green eyes was not demureness but unvoiced
mocking laughter.

It was definitely not about love, or fondness, or affection.

Jiraiya�s fingers twitched around the glass he still held idly, palm warming
the alcohol inside, days-old memory instinctively tightening their tendons.

Orochimaru had jerked away from him, almost flinching from the unexpected
touch� in another man Jiraiya would have read fear and discomfort into the
movement, but not now, not with Orochimaru, who seemed not to even comprehend
was fear was and who rarely seemed uneasy in any situation. �What do you think
you�re doing?�

Jiraiya had pulled the crimson scarf through his hands and reached upward�
above Orochimaru�s throat� slowly, making his intent obvious. The night was
stiflingly hot, breezeless and humid, pressing down on them suffocatingly, and
Jiraiya'd felt hotter just looking at the heavy fall of hair that had
clung to Orochimaru�s neck and back.

(He�d already attempted to persuade Tsunade into taking off more of her clothes�
c�mon, aren�t you hot? you�ll be cooler if you strip down to that fishnet,
you know� -- and the result of that particular entreaty and its
accompanying leer was still evident three days later as a sickly green bruise
on his ribs.)

�You�ve got to be crazy. You�re not even sweating.� But he had been, the thin
sheen of moisture slicking his skin making him almost glow in the dim, lurid
flashes of heat lightning dancing along the horizon.

The hiss of the silk against itself as he'd pulled the damp mass of hair up and
knotted the scarf tight had been a sound that'd ran down Jiraiya�s belly and
traced its way into his groin with the rivulets of sweat tricking down his
body.

Jiraiya couldn�t remember which of them had started it, who�d leaned forward first,
which of their tongues had parted the other�s lips or whose hands first fumbled
for a grip on moist clothing and slippery skin.

The heat that night had been unbearable.

It wasn�t about nostalgia, either, or wistfulness, or familiarity.

He hadn�t thought about the kisses they�d stolen from each other as children in
years� the ones that had been taken rough and quick in moments of surprise and
weakness, insulting kisses that were meant as weapons.

Those peculiar weapons had started some fights and ended others, and though the
first had been more common than the second, it was the latter Jiraiya
remembered more easily; he remembered the kisses he�d pressed repeatedly to
Orochimaru�s mouth until he�d given up on whatever he�d been trying to say� and
the argument� and accepted them with an expression of patient resignation. The
way that Orochimaru would nip at his lips with too-sharp teeth until he bit
angrily back, and their hands would gracelessly slid under folds of hakama and
yukata to finger the bruises they�d caused bare moments before.

It wasn�t about need.

The temperature dropped two nights ago as a cold front swept over the village;
it started raining and had not yet stopped.

Jiraiya hadn�t been paying attention when he�d returned home that evening,
shuffling his apartment keys in one hand and shifting his bag of groceries in
the crook of his arm, and as a result he�d nearly dropped both when he reached
the landing at his door and found a rain-drenched Orochimaru waiting there,
ever patient, his arms crossed over his chest and looking both disdainful of
his location and simultaneously as though his being there was the most natural
and obvious thing in the world.

Jiraiya had looked away reluctantly, dragging his gaze away from wet, clinging clothes
and pale, slick skin and eyes that dared him to say something, anything, so
that the pretenses could be dropped, in order to turn his attention to the
door.

Clothing was scattered in a mad trail from the kitchen to the bedroom, dry now,
though it had not been when it�d been dropped.

There were empty sauce-stained take-out boxes, cheap chopsticks, and a
quarter-full bottle of sake on the small yellow-lacquered table under the west
window.

It was still raining. Occasionally the spats hit the window hard enough to make
the shade sway slightly.

Orochimaru was sleeping in his bed, covered minimally only with a thin sheet,
his hair loose over the pillows and Jiraiya watched over him and told himself
again that this wasn�t what it looked like.

Jiraiya wasn�t sure what it was, and so he finished his drink, poured a
second, and listed again what it was not.
- 1
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