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“Asuka…?”
Her lips are suddenly on his throat and he feels a shiver chase down his spine.
“Shut up.” Her teeth scrape the skin, nip at the delicate flesh of his throat; she runs her tongue over every bite as if comforting, and he gasps and shudders. Her hand rests at the bone of his hip, as if trying to keep him in place. Somehow, she’s gentle, not herself. He thinks of pale, elegant fingers.
“But—” and he barely has a second to speak, and hears something like “don’t” before she kisses him, fervent, insistent. She devours his mouth as if it’s all she’s ever wanted. One hand briefly strokes his cheek before she grasps at his hair instead. His eyes fall closed; her lips are soft, her mouth is hot and he moans, so very softly. Her hand traces the outline of his hip, caresses his sides with graceful motions.
It’s almost close enough.
When she breaks the kiss she’s panting for breath, her face brilliantly flushed. He notices that her eyes are still closed and knows he need not ask her why. Wordlessly she pushes him to the floor. His breath catches in his throat; her hands skitter across his chest, grasp at his arms. Thin hands. Her breath is hot against his ear and he remembers whispers in a soft, purring voice.
Close.
She straddles him, pinning him with her weight and his hands move to her legs, her hips, to settle on her waist. He doesn’t touch her breasts. She grinds against him and he shudders and moans at the pressure on his growing erection. She won’t look at him. In her ears she hears a deep, rough voice.
She can’t look at him.
She’s trembling. He grasps her waist, holding firmly onto her, and she makes a strange little choked sound and shivers all over, her hands fisted in his shirt. She thinks of unkempt brown hair. He throbs against her. When she speaks it is barely above a whisper as if it’s all she can do to force the word out at all.
“Please.”
And she sounds so fragile and so weak and unsure and something cracks inside him, it’s not right, not right, but all he can do is nod once at her and she reaches down between her legs to free his erection from his pants and he realizes abruptly that she’s not wearing panties. For a moment she hesitates, her breathing heavy and uneven, and then she lowers herself onto him and lets out a desperate-sounding keen as he sinks into her. A sly grin dances behind her eyes.
It’s almost good enough.
He feels her slick heat surrounding him and when he closes his eyes he sees a haze of red. He pulses inside her, her hands dig into his shoulders, he scratches at her back. She spreads her legs wider to take him as deeply as she can, moans low in her throat at how he fills her. She cries out as she rides him and he feels dizzy with pleasure; she’s so wet that slick sounds fill the room that neither of them hears.
It’s not the same.
She leans down and buries her face in the crook of his neck and with every thrust her moans and soft cries fill his ears and it doesn’t sound like him. Interspersed with the moans he thinks he can hear a sound like sobbing. He clings to her and holds her to him, feels the softness of her curves and the warmth of her body and the frantic beating of her fragile human heart.
It will never be him.
Her moans grow shakier, the sobbing sound louder, and she thrusts downward onto him harder and faster and her whole body is shaking violently. He can feel the dampness of her tears on his neck, his cheek. Her hand grasps roughly at his hair. Tears leak from his eyes too, but he dares not open them. He can feel her clamping down on him and he’s so close, she’s so close, and—
He hears a name on her lips as she comes that is not his. He knew it would never be his.
“Kaji!”
And as she climaxes on top of him he feels something come undone and comes deep inside her, and chokes out a name that is not hers in a moan that fades to a broken sob, his mind a blur of brilliant red eyes and pale skin and beautiful silver-white hair.
“Kaworu!”
She seems to stay lying on top of him for an eternity as he grows soft within her. When she finally pulls herself off of him she lays on her side, curled up facing away from him. He cannot see her face.
It’s not right.
He lays his hand gently on her shoulder. But she flinches away as if he’s struck her and curls up more tightly with a half-stifled whimper that he hears all-too-clearly.
“No!”
He recoils and retreats from her. He notices now that he’s shaking erratically and feels cold, so cold. It takes so much effort to stand and he has to pull himself up using the table and he sways as if he will collapse before asserting the balance to walk.
Somehow he makes it to his room. He can hear her crying. He curls up on his bed, holds his head in his hands, tries to block out the sound, but he can hear her still and he wants to climb atop her and close his hands around her throat and squeeze until the fragile bones of her neck snap, anything, anything to stop the awful sound—
—it isn’t him, why aren’t you him, you’re not him, you’re not, why can’t you be him—
He lays in the darkness and can do nothing but listen, until the sound of his own sobs drowns hers out. He does not know for how long he cries. It makes no difference.
Tomorrow, or the next day, she may come to him again.
He will smell the scent of her skin and feel the soft curves of her body against his. The next time, she may slip and say that she loves him.
A lie neither of them believes.
And still it will not bring him back. It is never enough.
It will never be enough.