InsaneJournal

     Yazoo thinks he’s stupid and he knows it. 

     He loves him, of course, but he doesn’t see Loz. He sees a shadow on the wall and he thinks it is Loz. So he talks simply to it, uses small words and simple concepts. He takes him by the hand and guides him as he would a child.

      Loz lets it be this way. He lets it be this way because he knows Yazoo needs it, needs to wield his philosophies like an aspis. That’s what they are to his brother. Loz is stronger, definitely and faster possibly and when Yazoo sees their shadows together he sees Loz’s stretch up and wide and he sees his own - form of beauty, form of fuck, of hot slick nights - and he hates how that fits into their tripartite soul.  How if he uses heat and hands and slender soft thighs that he will no longer be anything but the lowest tier of bestial desire and animal lust. He will be only a body and he will lose the language of mind and soul he has fought to gain. So he zips his coat up to his slender throat, builds his ancient books into a phalanx and stands impenetrable behind it. 

      Loz admits to himself, even when he stares at Yazoo’s back with starving eyes, that this would be a shame. Yazoo’s mind is as beautiful as his body. It speaks a metered chant that ebbs and flows between Kadaj’s binary and his own tongue of tactics. Yazoo is the calm within the storm that binds the centripetal winds and holds their path and meaning, even when the most violent of winds threaten its permanence. He needs that, needs Yazoo and everything Yazoo is.  Loz is not content with shadows. 

     Kadaj is not with him when he returns and Loz has already built up the fire in one of the smaller whorls of the ancient temple that is serving as their outpost. Yazoo looks tired and his leather is rain-darkened at his shoulders and feet.  He offers Loz a smile when he comes in but little else, choosing a spot by the fire, neither too close nor too near and pulls off boots and gloves, placing them near the heat to dry. He rifles through his small pack of personal belongings - his ammunition, some first aid supplies - and pulls out a book, old and held together along it’s spine with tape. Loz knows this one, much better then he lets on as he edges closer, until his bare chest is nearly flush with Yazoo’s leather and he can read over his shoulder with his best confused expression.

      “What’re you reading ‘bout?”  Yazoo looks annoyed and flicks a hand at him.

     “Amour, Ai, Liebe. Go away.” But Loz is persistent, takes the book easily and pretends to be confused, flipping pages until he finds the one he wants. 

     “Huh?”

     “Love; give it back brute.” 

     “Oh.” He deposits the book back in Yazoo’s lap.

     “You made me lose my place.” 

     “Sorry. Want me to find it for you?”

     “No.” Pause. Loz doesn’t move. “Anything else?”

     “What’s that word?”

      “Agape.”

     “What’s it mean?” Yazoo sighs, knowing there’s no easy way to get rid of him now.

     “It means…love but,” Yazoo struggles to say it simply for Loz. “love without end, unlimited love.”

     “Oh,” he lets Yazoo read for a moment before he sticks his tongue between his teeth and furrows his brows, finger under another word.

     “What’s that one?”

     “Philia. Brotherly love.”

     “Uh-huh. What about that one?”

     “Eros…romantic love.” Yazoo shifts a little, primly arranges his leathers.

     “Oh. What’s the difference?” He sits back on his heels, holding his breath, hoping Yazoo will take the bait. 

     “It’s difficult to explain.” Yazoo says and Loz sees the little smirk on his lips. He has to try hard not to look triumphant. As long as Yazoo is in charge, Yazoo will play with him.

     His brother reaches down, takes Loz’s hand in his. His fingers twine around Loz’s knuckles and Loz’s hand curls instinctively, enveloping Yazoo’s. He strokes the space between tendons, tracing the tributaries to their source at the narrow wrist.

     “This is Philia,” Yazoo’s fingertips are still rain chilled. Loz wants to cup the little white hand and breathe hot over it until it’s warm again but he doesn’t dare interfere in the lecture.  “Familiar…equal…” He holds up their hands. “Given and received equally in its bondage.”

     “That’s good?”

     “Yes, that’s good.”

     Loz is not expecting the kiss to come so soon so he doesn’t have time to acknowledge the graceful tilt of Yazoo’s head or the way his hair sweeps off to the side except for the strand that brushes Loz’s jaw, before Yazoo’s near-bloodless lips are pressed against his. His lower lip nestles into the curve of Loz’s mouth, resting for a moment, trembling when Loz lets his mouth open just enough to run his teeth along the swell. Yazoo pulls back and Loz chuffs at the unexpected loss of contact.

     “That is Eros.” He cups Loz’s face gently. “Sensual…physical.” 

     “That’s good too.” Loz says not bothering to hide the tremor in his voice and he feels Yazoo laugh. He presses their lips together again. His tongue licks the seam of Loz’s mouth, coaxing it open and sliding inside. Gentle pressure, just the tip of his tongue from canine to canine and deeper, cool, slick pulse and retreat and Loz is almost ready to let the whole issue drop because if Yazoo is willing to give him this, if his feigned stupidity has bought him this much, then being treated like a brute is a small price to pay and he will give it gladly.
Yazoo pulls away; slower and still so close Loz can just feel the brush of his lips when he speaks.

     “So which do you like better?” Loz looks at Yazoo’s eyes. They have grown large and very, very shiny. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the innocuous question. Loz knows that if he were really as stupid as he pretends to be it would be a very mean-spirited thing to ask because there is no right answer and worse than that, both answers are wrong enough to be twisted into a fight if Yazoo has a mind to argue.

     “Can’t I have both?” He tries to keep his voice even.

     “No. You have to pick.” Yazoo smiles showing just a glitter of teeth.

     “Why?” He takes Yazoo’s hand in his again and leans forward to kiss the vicious smile.

     “No.” Yazoo cranes his head back. “It doesn’t work like that. The definitions are separate. Intolerably distinct and infinitely removed.” Yazoo uses complicated words now, a declaration of superiority. He places one hand against Loz’s sternum and pushes and Loz yields, goes down against the smooth stone. Yazoo straddles him, leans so close his hair blocks everything in Loz’s peripheral vision leaving only the intimate vision of the smooth pale face and shiny cat-eyes of his slender brother.

     “So which is it, Loz? Philia? Or Eros?” Their breath mingles for the space of a few seconds. Loz doesn’t answer and it doesn’t matter anyway because Yazoo rises, spine curving crescent-like, and grinds his hips against Loz’s cock. “Looks like I have my answer.” His lip curls, warping his pretty mouth. “And they call him ‘Winged’ because he makes things rise,” he says mockingly and laughs. Loz hates the sound, the soft murmur of his brother’s voice gone high and strained. 

     Yazoo braces his hand against Loz’s chest, dismounting and Loz pulls one of his wrists, upsetting his balance and toppling him back against Loz hard enough that it hurts when his forehead collides with Loz’s chin. It’s easy enough for Loz to reverse their positions and even though Loz isn’t using a fraction of his strength to pin Yazoo he feels guilty when he sees his brother tremble. It’s not supposed to go like this, he’s not supposed to give away his trump card so early, but it’s all he’s got. 

     “Must what isn't learned be ignorant? Have you never heard of something which comes between the two?” He kisses Yazoo’s temple gently, hoping to soften the blow. “Then I choose neither.” He pulls back and Yazoo’s eyes are wide, livid and trembling because the game has changed. It isn’t and never has been his to lose, and he smiles at Loz again, head canted delicately. His voice could be misconstrued as awed if the wideness of his eyes and the absolute stillness of his composure, didn’t betray him.

     “Everyone underestimates your intelligence -- and that, dear brother, is what makes you dangerous.” His eyes narrow and Loz’s breath leaves him in a rush as Yazoo’s knee hits home, connecting solidly with his groin. “You underestimate me too."

     He rolls out from under Loz. Loz’s world has narrowed to the drilling pain shooting from his pelvic bone to the base of his feet. He doesn’t even see Yazoo strip himself of the leather straps that cross his chest. He straddles Loz’s back and loops it around his neck like a choke chain.

     “You think you’re smart, don’t you brother? You’re not. A few parroted phrases from books aren’t enough to make me roll over for you.” He yanks the chain viciously and Loz instinctively growls. “Don’t you know that strength,” He pulls, “and lust,” another yank, “are always leashed to reason? Or was that not in your readings?”

     Loz reaches a hand back and fists it in Yazoo’s leathers. He doesn’t throw him. He keeps a tight grip as he rises and drags Yazoo bodily out of the confines of the temple like a mewling kitten and drops him on the ground. He’s not mad, not even close. He hates it some days but it’s not in him to get mad at Yazoo no matter what Yazoo does. Yazoo wants to fight and if that’s what he needs, something Loz can give, he will. 

     “Don’t taunt in the middle of a fight. You lose your advantage when you’re talking.” Yazoo’s only answer is a punch aimed for Loz’s face. Loz ducks it and grabs Yazoo’s hands. “Melee isn’t your strong suit but if you’re forced into it use your legs before you throw punches. That’s where you have the reach, that’s where you have power.”

     “Shut-up,” Yazoo says and aims a kick at his groin. Loz blocks it with his knee and strafes out of reach of Yazoo’s kicks. 

     “Below the belt shots are acceptable,” he glares at Yazoo. “But never use the same trick twice.”

     “Since when did my older brother become the keeper of combat laws? Did I miss the ceremony?” Yazoo stands, bisected by the strange shadow and phosphorescent light of the forest. One side glows lambent while the other is swallowed in charcoal shadow, save for the shimmer of his eyes.

     “Love is desirous of wisdom,” Loz responds with a bitter smile. Yazoo launches a predictable roundhouse that Loz avoids. Yazoo’s right side is blind, obscured in the whiplash of argent hair and Loz exploits it. He flanks Yazoo and slips one arm around Yazoo’s neck and another into the silky tangle. He tugs Yazoo’s hair. “You should tie this back when you fight.” 

     Yazoo screams and Loz is physically taken aback. His brother’s voice never rises above a sleepy murmur and in any fight they have ever been in he is always the perfect paradigm of calm precision and deadly accuracy. Loz can’t see that now, can’t even recognize his brother in the banshee wail and the blitz of scratching, clawing and kicking he turns on Loz. He goes for Loz’s eyes, his neck and it’s all Loz can do to contain him, to get him in his arms and wrestle him to the ground, cage him. He pins Yazoo’s wrists above his head, weighting him down bodily with his own bulk. He feels the delicate bones strain under the pressure but he’s afraid to let go. Loz is not frightened of much but he is frightened of Yazoo right now and he wishes more than anything that he could take it all back. It doesn’t matter anymore. 

     “Please stop,” he begs quietly. Yazoo doesn’t even hear him. He tries to buck Loz off him, twisting his head. Leaves thread into his hair and strands of it catch and stick to his lips and cheek. He writhes, trapped between Loz and the damp ground, muscles strained and trembling until his voice goes hoarse, breaks mid-wail. Yazoo collapses, lets Loz’s weight crush him, pushing the air out of his lungs in a harsh gasp.

     “You win! You bastard, goddamn you, fuck me already. You win, you’re stronger, you’re faster, you’re smarter.” There are no tears but the sound that rattles from deep in his ribcage is treacherously like a sob. “This is what you want so do it, fuck me and when I’m no goddamn good to you anymore, when I’m just a warm body for you to fuck you-”

     Loz slaps him. For the first time since the whole damn thing started Loz hits him, stopping the vulgar litany and rocking Yazoo’s head back against the dirt.

     “Don’t you ever…” His voice is trembling and he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “Don’t you ever say that’s what I’d do to you.” He rolls off of Yazoo and puts his head down, carding his hands through his hair. It hurts even though he understands. He remembers before, when his thoughts were bloody. Always blood and death, blood and power, blood and sex but always blood. Blood was compulsory; blood was always there until he saw Yazoo, something so beautiful that all those things couldn’t touch him. It had felt like walking out into the sunlight for the first time, seeing everything for what it really was and every goodness that revelation had brought him, he’d wanted to deliver back to it’s source. Everything good about him belonged to Yazoo and he knew it.

     “I don’t want to fuck you,” he says and then, because he knows he will be caught if he lies. “Not if you don’t want me too.” Yazoo is still lying there, trembling but quiet and Loz snatches the opportunity to speak. He offers a prayer to whatever muses guided the ancients that he gets it right because as much as he may know that loving someone does not fit easily into Yazoo’s definitions of Philia and Eros; as much as he knows that beauty can only inspire men to know the good; he also knows that none of the ancient men who spoke these words had to speak them to his brother in a maelstrom temper. “That’s not what it is though. You’re beautiful Yazoo and you think that’s cheap, that it’s not as important as my being strong or Kadaj being intelligent but it is. It’s everything. It scares me sometimes that you think beauty has no place here because then I don’t know how there could be anything good either. Your beauty is how I know what’s good and everything I find in myself that’s good I want to give to you because before you there wasn’t anything good in me. Goddamnit I don’t understand why you think that’s bad. I don’t know why you keep trying to punish me for that. I know what Love is, Yazoo, and I know how to fight. I thought you might want that.” Loz swipes his hand angrily at his tears. “At least one of them.”

     Yazoo’s weight is slight but solid against his back. Slender hands touch his neck, the red, injured skin where the leather belt, still looped raggedly, has chafed flesh. He removes it, fingers that are normally so nimble fumbling with the buckle. He presses his forehead against Loz’s shoulder and when Yazoo speaks it is both muffled and hoarse. The voice is as rough 

     “Love as the son of Plenty and Poverty, it has been his fate to be always needy; nor is he delicate and lovely as most of us believe, but harsh and arid, barefoot and homeless.” His lips press against Loz’s shoulder, a spot that has always made him shiver. “Don’t cry Loz. I think…I think maybe the only good in me is what you’ve given me.” 

     “That’s not possible,” Loz shakes his head.

     “ I don’t want to be what I am and I don’t know how to be anything else. I can’t-” Yazoo lets out a shaking breath. “I can’t beat it like you and Kadaj did. I can’t make it something worthwhile.” Loz rests a hand over Yazoo’s smaller one.

     “We didn’t beat it. We never even fought it. We just…had you. It’s unfair because you only had us…me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be that...beautiful for you.” Loz shuts his eyes tight against the full weight of what he has said because it is more to himself than Yazoo. It’s a truth he hasn’t admitted to himself until now; that love is not given for the benefit of the lover and that no matter how much he may care for Yazoo, how much good that love does Yazoo, it may never be returned.

      He feels Yazoo stand behind him and he doesn’t take the eyes off the earth in front of him until his brother’s bare feet appear in his line of vision. He looks up at Yazoo, different then he has ever seen him: hair tangled with leaves, uncomposed and dirt streaked. He is white and blue like bruises, instead of like ice.

     “So teach me.” He extends a hand to Loz. One of his nails is broken and bloody.

     “Teach you what?” Loz takes it and stands.

     “Fighting…for now.” Yazoo says, eyes tilted down. Loz can’t help but be a little dissapointed. “Teach me to fight with you.”

     “Ah…okay.” Everything has built to this and now Loz isn’t sure he can do it, isn’t sure his strength has enough goodness in it to seem beautiful to Yazoo. He will try—he has to try—but he knows now that if he does succeed, its all by accident. If he is wise, its only because he knows nothing.

     His first attempts are more outright falls then stumbles but when he finds his stride and they move—beside, with, and through one another—Loz is almost convinced this is better then sex. He is tempted to think that sex and fighting are the same damn thing for them. The way they move continuously against eachother, sweating and gasping, almost convinces him. They explore the limits of eachother’s motion and become a fulcrum of power and speed that does not cease motion, even when Loz guides Yazoo onto his forearm and Yazoo lets himself go, careening wildly in the air, trusting wind, gravity and Loz to guide him back down to earth. 

     “Again,” he says when he comes down and Loz does. Over and over, he practices the strength and angle of each toss while Yazoo learns to turn and spiral at the apex of flight, until they both can barely move and they help eachother back to the temple, collapsing near the burnt down embers of the fire.

     He can’t help it; he kisses Yazoo, no more then the barest brush of lips. He waits for the fallout but there is none. Yazoo’s eyes drift closed and he gives an odd, enraptured little gasp and Loz, helplessly, does it again, and again. First kissing one corner of his mouth, than the other, his forehead, his eyelids, until Yazoo finally twines a hand around his neck and holds him still. Loz holds his breath; he can barely believe it when Yazoo kisses him, when his soft strange moans drown in Loz’s mouth. Even in the dying embers, their shadows are still distinct and before he is completely overcome Loz sees them, one slim and delicate the other large and enveloping, moving together on the wall.