Author's Notes: Written for Skyscape, who will be doing (beautiful) fanart for this story eventually. I've been wanting to try writing some Haji/Saya smex, although I was quite embarrassed while writing it. Critique is welcome, and do enjoy!

 

Disclaimer: I do not own BLOOD+ and am not making any profit from this fan fiction.

 

 

Zinnias and Strings

 

By Nessie

 

She cannot sleep, and he is willing to stay up with her in her expansive chamber. He tries to ease her restlessness with song, tender notes that float from the movements of his bow in the same way bubbles rise from the depths of a lake. A fire in the scrubbed stone hearth casts a ghostly film over the room; the papered walls, cheerful pink in the daylight, are deep rose. Burgundy velvet on his chair is blood-red beneath him. The crystal chandelier overhead is unlit.

 

Dressed only in a pearl pink negligee, Saya lays sprawled on her bed, which is an excessively large slab of white. She is like that shade, unmarred, virginal. Hers eyes are closed as she listens, and Haji knows she is not dozing but fully-aware, ready to critique the slightest mistake. There is not one made.

 

Taking the opportunity her shut gaze provides him, he sees the slender lines of her arms; one is crossed over her stomach. The other is stretched out over her head, some of her jet black hair flowing in stark contrast with the paleness of her skin. In the fingers of that hand is a bright flower, a dark pink (naturally) zinnia. She twirls the stem between her thumb and index finger. Haji had watched her pluck it from the china vase on the mantel above the fireplace. The vase was so full zinnias, in many colors, that several blossoms hung out over the edge of the mantel.

 

Haji returns his eyes to the movements of his arm in the same instant hers open. He briefly wonders if she felt him looking, and his fingers tighten on the bow. He had entered his twentieth year two days ago, and now appears older than the woman across the room, even though he had come to her eight years before at twelve, and had than been seemingly four years younger. The mystery of her appearance, though sometimes agony, does not bother him now. He is too surrounded by the music of his cello.

 

“Haji.”

 

His fingers still as he prepares to listen, in case she needs something. He has only had one order tonight, and that was only to open the window.

 

“Don't stop.” So he plays. “We have been together for some time. A little under a decade, I think. And I am comfortable with you.” He does not dare raise his eyes to her - something about the fire keeps him from doing so - but he knows from her tone that her brow is furrowed in thought. “But lately…I have not been so comfortable.”

 

He plays on, but his tempo slows. Uncharacteristically, Saya does not mention it.

 

“I think of you even while you are not with me. Don't stop,” she commands again when surprise grips him fully enough that his arms halts. He continues, however, his concentration is broken.

 

“It is not…agreeable,” she says at last. “Mostly because I have images - in my head. Of you. Well…of us…”

 

She trails, and his heart beats at a spirited pace, but still the song comes slowly. For a minute, there is only the crackle of the fire and the breath of shadows as accompaniment to his cello. And then, Saya's voice rises above again.

 

“Haji. Stop playing.” So he stops. “And look at me.” Pulse thrumming, he looks.

 

Her eyes are twin pools of night, barely glimmering in the golden light issuing from the hearth. The line of her nose is deep, the shadow of her lashes dark, and below her mouth is parted slightly. His gaze focuses there; her lips entice without her realization of it. Haji is momentarily stunned by the way his blood warms.

 

“You have grown up,” she tells him, and his eyes arrow back up to hers when her mouth moves. “And I…” She trails again, and rather than words, she sits up. Her bones move gracefully, and the zinnia falls into her lap. One of her hands rises, palm out, toward him. “Come to me,” she murmurs. An order, lightly given.

 

Haji sets the cello aside and does not miss the way the strings shine in the light. Standing, he gently rests the bow upon the cushion of the chair before crossing the room. He stands at the side of the bed, not touching it, not touching Saya. Something quivers inside of him, and he does not know what it is.

 

She lowers her hand, but watches him carefully. Haji feels studied, in the way a painter studies light. Though the light here is inconstant and poor, and he doubts Saya can see him very well.

 

“Haji,” she queries, her voice no louder than the brush of nighttime wind against the dancing curtains, “are your hands cold?”

 

She does not wait for his answer but takes his left hand between her two smaller ones, and he finds that hers are not cold at all. She explores his hand with her fingertips, as though the row of knuckles is a new discovery, the lines on his palm a revelation. And then, adding to his confusion regarding her actions, Saya dips her head and presses her lips to his fingers.

 

His hand is not cold, nor is any other part of him, and Haji realizes something. He has wanted her for years.

 

And wanting her makes him feel…more.

 

Words become a thing of the past, impossible in this moment. Saya's touch travels up his arms toward his shoulder, and she pulls him toward her as she rises to her knees on the mattress, bringing them eye-to-eye. Haji feels himself tense. But she brushes his cheek, and every muscle he has relaxes. His eyes meet hers, and she links their fingers.

 

He slides a knee onto the bed. Her arms open to him.

 

Haji settles over her, fitting his body to hers like a candle in silver. It is Saya who raises her head until their lips touch and then fuse. The quivering inside him goes still, only to be replaced by an explosive burning. Guided by instinct, his palm fixes over breast. A quick shudder of breath - hers - fans over his cheek. She grows bolder, gripping his dress shirt and pulling it from his pants. Her hands slide beneath, over his chest and back. Haji forgets to breath, and lowers his head to the pillow comforter beneath her, his lips unintentionally brushing her ear.

 

Saya arches in response to the sensitive spot, and one of her nails scratches his shoulder-blade. The hem of her silk nightgown rises, and his hand falls on her bare thigh. Her hips buck involuntarily, though she is sane enough to unclasp the front of his slacks, catching him off-guard enough that he holds perfectly still while she divests him of the article. She also makes quick work of his shirt, and then it too is gone.

 

They roll on the wide bed, and she is above him, gazing down. The burn inside him spread to the outer, and he would not be surprised in his skin steamed as her touch moves alone his naked stomach. His breath catches when her hand travels lower, and he sees her eyes widen in wonderment.

 

But Saya alone is not curious, and before long Haji grips her upper arms, using leverage to flip again. He finds he prefers her beneath him, and she makes no argument. Sweat dampens his long dark hair as he pulls her negligee over her head, removing the final barrier between them. Her breathing quickens as his eyes rove her body, his fingers reaching out to know the texture. He experiments, finding places that bring a reaction, others that have no effect. When an instinct urges him to the center of her, Saya's head thrashes to the side, and he pauses, concerned, until she murmurs to him in the same way she had to urge on his playing. He watches, entranced, as she writhes and moans beneath him with only a few miniscule caresses of his fingers. She grows wet. He becomes uncomfortable nearly to the point of pain himself.

 

Her hands catch at his, and she coaxes him atop her once more. There is another pause - he knows what is happening, he has not gone completely without education, but he waits until…

 

“Haji.” It is confirmation enough. Bracing himself on his forearms so as not to burden her with his weight, he takes a deep breath and slides inside her on the exhale.

 

His forehead lowers to hers, their eyes very close. “Saya…” Her name is desperately said, his first vocalization of the night.

 

She breaks their locked stares by throwing her head back, and he takes the invitation by mixing his mouth on her neck. One of her legs crosses over the back of his thigh, her left arm slinging across his shoulders. She holds on.

 

And he moves, slowly at first as with his playing, and then quickening his movements as she clutches him. It is like a crescendo, building so quickly Haji does not expect it when it reaches its height. Burying his face into her neck, he releases a moan into her shoulder just as she rises off the bed, her mouth open in a soundless cry.

 

Above the hearth, a yellow zinnia falls from the china vase, dripping like water, into the flame below. It burns.

 

Both Haji and Saya lay panting, their hands intertwined out to the side. The clock in the hall chimes midnight, but their sweat-slicked bodies do not budge an inch. He feels…

 

“Haji.” He lifts his head enough to see her eyes glowing at him from above a smile. “Will you please stay here tonight?”

 

It is not an order, but a request. She does not give him those often.

 

“You don't have to play,” she adds, and the corners of his mouth tilt upward in a phantom smile. Shifting, he pulls out of her but holds her more tightly against him.

 

He catches the scent of zinnias. And he hears music without trembling strings.

 

“If that is your desire,” he whispers, liking the sound of the phrase, and kisses her again.

 

The End