Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1836385.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater, Soul_Eater_Not!
  Relationship:
      Kim_Diehl/Ox_Ford, Harvar_D._Éclair/Ox_Ford
  Character:
      Ox_Ford, Harvar_D._Éclair
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Crush, Fist_Fights, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn
      Without_Plot, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending
  Series:
      Part 1 of Confessions
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-03 Words: 4700
****** Unrequited ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It’s not that the feel of Ox’s cheekbone under Harvar's fist is
     horrifying, or even particularly shocking, even though he never
     expected to be attacking his meister." Harvar loses his patience and
     Ox discovers a secret.
Harvar is familiar with the experience of injuring others. It’s inherent to his
situation as a weapon, after all; dealing damage to the target is the ultimate
goal for him. Everything else -- strategy, skill, Resonance -- comes second to
that initial plan. So it’s not that the feel of Ox’s cheekbone under his fist
is horrifying, or even particularly shocking, even though he never expected to
be attacking his meister, and even though this has a visceral reality to it
that his weapon-form attacks lack. In fact, it’s not horror he feels at all.
It’s a deep satisfaction, the slow grind of months of rising irritation finally
boiling over without the buffer of his weapon form or the passive-aggression
burn of sarcasm to dull the edge. There’s just the bruising pain of impact
spreading out into his knuckles, the reflexive grunt of protest from the boy
under him, and the pleasure, the relief of too-long withheld tension
finally, finally free.
Ox didn’t realize what he was doing. Harvar could barely have told him, though
he knew enough about his own state of mind to groan not-so-quietly and roll his
eyes when the meister launched into yet another speech about his undying love
for Kim Diehl, as if the girl ever looked at him twice. But he tries to be
patient, like he always tries to be patient, swallows back the rising tide of
frustration and hurt while Ox extolls the perfection of the girl’s eyes,
shoulders, waist, ankles, as if there’s no one in the whole world but her for
him. Harvar doesn’t speak, Harvar doesn’t have to speak. Ox could be talking to
a wall, for all the difference it makes in the non-conversation they’re having.
That, of course, just grinds Harvar’s patience thinner, and he’s just coming up
on his limit when Ox finishes a sentence with, “Don’t you think so?”
Harvar didn’t hear what went before but he doesn’t have to. He knows the gist
of the conversation from sheer repetition, the other boy’s praises are burnt
into his brain until he can’t shake them even in his wildest fantasies. And
he’s done, done with this conversation and done with his patience, so when he
says, “I don’t,” it’s snapping with the heat of the anger he makes no attempt
to restrain.
Ox huffs, as if Harvar has dealt him a mortal wound instead of disagreeing with
his taste in women, and when he speaks Harvar can hear the haughty
condescension coming his way in the sniff of air he takes before he starts.
“What facet of my analysis do you find fault with?”
Harvar stares down at the table, thoughts whirling with irritation rapidly
coalescing into rage under his skin, the volatile type that demands expression,
and he knows he should get up and leave but he doesn’t want to, the destructive
edge of his nature wants him to stay. So he stays, and when he answers he’s
looking for the fight and it shows in his voice. “The idea that Kim Diehl is
perfection itself.” He extends a finger, taps it to indicate the first point.
“The inevitability of her reciprocating your affection.” Two fingers. “The
impossibility of your surviving without her.” Three. “The level of her
objective attractiveness to all who see her.” Four, and the thumb for last.
“The assumption that I care to hear any of this.”
Ox makes a sound like he’s been hit with each of Harvar’s fingers coming down;
even without seeing the hurt on his face, it’s satisfying to hear the pain in
the sound, to know that Harvar is finally paying back some of the suffering the
meister has been unknowingly dealing to him. He forms his extended fingers into
a fist, digs his fingernails hard into his palm, and tips his head up to look
at Ox.
The other boy looks floored for a moment, until he sees Harvar turning to look
at him. Then his chin goes up, his mask comes down, and when he crosses his
arms Harvar’s blood goes cold with anticipation of something truly vicious.
“You would understand if you had any humanity in you at all.” That hurts, but
it’s nothing new. Harvar’s heard it from other people, from Ox himself during
occasional previous fights. “Trust me to get stuck with a weapon who wastes all
his spark on combat and doesn’t have any left over for really living.” The
meister looks away so the light catches his glasses and Harvar can’t see his
eyes at all. “You don’t know what it is to suffer the agony of unrequited
love.”
Ox didn’t mean that last as the killing blow. Harvar knows that, or will know
it once the wash of red fury has faded from his vision. But his intentions
don’t matter. The weapon is lurching up from his chair, his teeth are coming
together with an audible click, and his newly-formed fist comes around to smash
solidly into the bridge of Ox’s nose.
Ox goes stumbling backwards, his hand coming up over his face in reflexive
protection even before he halts his instinctive retreat from the attack. Harvar
doesn’t move to follow but he doesn’t sit back down either, doesn’t relax his
hands from the fists he’s made at his sides. When Ox lowers his hand his nose
is bleeding a curtain of red down to his mouth.
“What the hell, Harvar?” he asks, the irregularity of the language more telling
to his surprise than his tone.
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” Harvar hisses, tightening his fists so his palms
ache from the pressure of his fingernails. “Don’t you dare.”
“Maybe if you told me once in a while I wouldn’t have to explain it to you,” Ox
shoots back. He drags the back of his hand over his face, which only serves to
smear the red over his cheek, but then he makes a fist too. Harvar’s never
tried to pick a fight with Ox before, has always assumed it would be harder
than this, but either he was wrong or he’s hit a nerve in turn and he doesn’t
care. His arms are shaking with tension and his skin is itching to hit or be
hit, anything so long as it’s vicious and painful.
“Like you would listen,” Harvar scoffs with as much edge as he can muster. “You
never listen to anything but the sound of your own voice.”
“Well you don’t talk.” Ox takes a step in, close enough that the perpetual
glare off his thick glasses slides off and Harvar can see the furious shadow in
his eyes. “I would listen if you didn’t keep me at arm’s length all the time.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“You’re not using words yet.” Ox reaches up to pull his glasses free; his face
looks strangely naked without them, his eyes wide and vulnerable without their
shield of glass. “But fine. You want to talk with your fists, I’m listening
now.”
“Fine,” Harvar growls. He appreciates Ox taking his glasses off -- it means
that when he steps in and brings his fist up, he can aim for the meister’s eye
without worrying about shattering glass. Ox turns his head anyway, takes the
hit on his cheek instead of the bridge of his eyebrow, and Harvar is just
starting to raise his eyebrows in appreciation of the half-dodge when the
meister’s fist comes up from under and slams into his jaw.
It’s a mess, after that. Ox lets Harvar land hits of his own, but the meister’s
are harder if fewer. Harvar keeps getting in glancing blows -- one on Ox’s lip,
a fist into his shoulder, a misjudged swing at his cheek that leaves a scratch
in its wake. But Ox’s responsive punches are devastating, land with more force
than Harvar thought the skinny meister had in him. The one on his jaw leaves
him reeling; when Ox’s fingers hit his mouth Harvar’s lip tears, leaves him
spitting as much blood as the other boy. There’s one that Harvar only barely
dodges, that comes so close to his own visor that he stumbles backward to buy a
few seconds to tear it off. Then he’s in closer, grabbing at Ox’s pristine
shirtfront with his left hand to hold him still for a flurry of hits with his
right, and Ox’s fist is slamming into his shoulder and low under his ribs, and
Harvar is choking and gasping for breath when the meister kicks at his shin and
his balance goes.
There’s no chance to catch himself and he doesn’t bother trying. Ox is under
him, anyway, it’s easy to let himself go limp so the meister takes most of the
force of his fall rather than himself. But it’s not comfortable, Ox really is
skinny and the impact drives bruises into Harvar’s leg and shoulder and
stomach; if the meister weren’t as winded by the fall as Harvar, the fight
would be over then.
It is almost over anyway. When Harvar tries to catch his breath his body
doesn’t obey, and when he swings again it lacks the vicious force of his first
few punches. Ox has his own shirt, is shoving Harvar back by his hold so he
can’t get a good angle anyway, and the fist the weapon has on the meister’s
shirt loosens, slides up until Harvar is more leaning to support his weight on
the other boy than holding him still.
“What the hell is your problem?” Ox demands, breathless and gasping and choking
from his still-bleeding nose. His face is going purple and red, swelling in the
shape of Harvar’s fists from a multitude of glancing blows, and Harvar’s own
vision is going blurry from the proper black eye the other boy gave him. The
fight is over, though, Ox isn’t resisting and Harvar lacks the strength to keep
going, and he’s got the other boy pinned under him and Ox looks terrible, all
bruises and blood and panting breathing.
Harvar stares down at Ox’s face for a minute -- the damage he’s done, the angry
confusion in the other’s dark eyes -- and then he closes his hand into a fist
on the other’s bloodstained shirt, and drags him up sideways by this hold, and
crushes his mouth against the other boy’s.
It really is a crush more than a kiss. Harvar’s mouth is open so he can gasp
for breath and his teeth slam against Ox’s, and it hurts his torn lip and Ox
tastes like the blood coating his face. It’s painful, and it’s disappointing,
and it’s not what Harvar imagined, when he let himself imagine kissing Ox. But
even so, even when Ox shoves him away so hard the weapon topples backward,
skids until he fetches up against the wall, his blood is burning and his head
is hazy, and he’s almost smiling when a shadow falls over him and he looks up
into the meister’s furious expression.
“What the hell was that for?” Ox demands, as if Harvar’s behavior wasn’t
perfectly clear. His hands are in fists again but Harvar’s will to fight is
gone, evaporated with that brief touch of his mouth to Ox’s, and he blinks, and
sighs, and stays slouched against the wall.
“Don’t tell me I don’t have feelings,” he says, low and rough. Someone else
would talk over him, wouldn’t be listening in the first place, but Ox is
listening to him, listening intently for once, and the meister’s hands curl in
at the wrists like he’s thinking about punching or maybe thinking about
bringing his hands up over his face.
“For me?” Ox demands, sharp and disbelieving. It makes Harvar laugh, even if
the sound comes out more like a cry of pain than amusement, and he shuts his
eyes so he doesn’t have to see the shock over Ox’s face.
“For you.” He would get up if he could, go and lock himself in his own room
while the bruises rise under his skin, but he’s shaking even slumped here as he
is and he doesn’t trust his legs to take his weight.
The shadow on his face shifts, and that’s surprising enough that Harvar opens
his eyes again. Ox has dropped to his knees, his hands have fallen limp and
open at his sides; his mouth is open, his eyes watery with almost-tears. He
brings a hand up to drag over his mouth and takes most of the blood with it,
though it can’t do anything for the swelling from the hits that went before.
“Why?” he finally asks, sounding lost and broken and confused, like Harvar has
just told him the sun rises in the north.
The weapon could say something sarcastic about bad taste, or something gentle
about the meister not giving himself enough credit. He does neither. Instead he
stares at Ox, stares at the bruises he raised himself while his own skin aches
dully with the pain from Ox’s fists, and says, “Because you’re you,” since it’s
the only thing he can say, and it’s true.
Ox doesn’t protest, and he doesn’t hit Harvar again, although the weapon
wouldn’t have been surprised by such. He does stare, silent and blood-smeared
and looking like Harvar has just shattered his whole world around him. Harvar
determines that there are two options -- either Ox stays there until the weapon
musters the strength and determination to get up and move away, or he does what
turns out to be the actual result, which is lean in to initiate a kiss of his
own.
Harvar doesn’t move away. He knows what this is even before Ox’s lips brush
against his with enough hesitation to speak to the experimentation under the
motion. He probably should, since this isn’t what he wants either, but there is
a pathetically desperate part of him that wants this, still, even this broken
version of his actual desire, and if he shuts his eyes he can almost imagine
he’s not bruised and aching and that Ox isn’t on the verge of pulling away even
before he’s made contact.
It’s only a moment. Then the meister is rocking back on his heels and Harvar is
opening his eyes to stare at him as blankly as he can manage under the
circumstances, with his split lip stinging from even the light pressure of the
other boy’s mouth.
“Happy now?” he asks. “Convinced you’re straight yet? I could have told you
that much before we started.”
“Hey,” Ox says in weak protest. “You hit me first, don’t try to say this was my
fault.”
“It was absolutely your fault,” Harvar sighs. “Look, we’ll just ignore this,
pretend it never happened and I’ll never say anything about it again.” He drags
one leg in towards himself so he can get a foot under himself, starts to push
to his feet while his declaration is still hanging in the air.
“Wait,” Ox demands. Harvar isn’t sure if there’s an edge of meister-command
under that that stalls his muscles, or if it’s just that his body doesn’t want
to complete the motion, but he does, hesitates with his feet half under him. Ox
reaches for his shoulder, grabs a fistful of rumpled shirt, and pulls him in so
Harvar almost falls against his mouth before the meister’s other hand catches
his other shoulder to steady him.
It’s better, this time. It still hurts, Harvar’s lip is starting to throb
dully, but Ox is doing something with his mouth that seems more intentional
than accidental, their teeth aren’t smashing together, and Harvar’s back is
angled oddly but his heart is starting to pound, racing more now than it did
even with the fight adrenaline.
Then Ox pulls back, makes a face, says, “Ow,” and Harvar drops back to the
wall, flinching away since he can’t trust himself to attempt standing again.
“Okay,” he says again, his voice shaking audibly now. “You must be done now,
right?”
Ox tsks, clicks his tongue and reaches out to grab at Harvar’s shoulder again
even though the weapon’s not going anywhere. “It hurts because you hit me, not
because I hate it. It’s not a good test, my whole face is aching.”
“Are you going to pencil me in to your calendar then?” Harvar tries to snap,
but then fingers come up under the loose edge of his shirt to press against his
skin and his words fade off into a whine in the back of his throat.
“No,” Ox says, still sounding shockingly steady given how badly his hand on
Harvar’s waist is shaking. “Unless you want me to wait.”
That is a dirty trick. Even in his most realistic fantasies Harvar didn’t
imagine this, this shaking touch of fingers on his skin and Ox’s eyes wide and
frightened and curious, and now the meister is leaving it up to him to stop. He
probably should, he recognizes rationally, but rationally he knows absolutely
that if they stop now he won’t ever get this chance again, and irrationally his
body is entirely clear on what it wants from the other boy.
“Fuck,” Harvar says, the word weighted with all the complexities of his racing
thoughts and coated with the final decision he knew he was going to make before
he even started running calculations. “No, I don’t want you to wait.”
Ox lets a breath go. Harvar can hear it shake, can hear the edge of a whimper
under the exhale, and then Ox is leaning in closer, not for another kiss but
just to rest his forehead against Harvar’s. The contact isn’t entirely
unprecedented -- Harvar isn’t physically demonstrative but Ox definitely is,
regularly grabs at the weapon’s wrist to get his attention or leans in against
him when they’re next to each other on the couch. It’s never felt like it means
anything before, or at least never felt like it should mean anything regardless
of what Harvar’s reaction was. But this does, this feels awkward and intense
and loaded with an offer and fright and more meaning than Harvar is sure Ox
intends.
He kind of wants to push the meister away. There’s a part of him that feels
like he’s using Ox, another part of him that feels like Ox might be using him,
that this is weird and too fast and aren’t they rushing into this, after all?
But his meister’s hand is sliding sideways over his stomach and Ox’s fingers
are closing on the button of his jeans and he cannot make the other boy stop,
even if this ruins everything he’s pretty sure everything is already ruined
anyway. Ox is touching him, even through the denim the contact is enough to
make him flinch in reaction and rush his breathing, and there is no possible
way that Ox has missed the resistance under his fingers.
“Fuck,” Ox blurts, too shocked to catch back the impulsive response. “All this
time, Harvar?” until the weapon reaches out to cover his mouth with a desperate
hand, gasp “Quiet, shut up Ox,” and the meister subsides, stops talking in
favor of pulling Harvar’s jeans open. It’s awful, it’s deliberate and awkward
but it’s also everything Harvar wanted, he can hear the panicked desperation in
Ox’s breath, the way the meister’s inhale catches and stalls when Harvar’s hips
come up in instinctive rhythm to meet the meister’s touch.
“I’m sorry,” Harvar blurts, shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Ox’s
reaction. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Ox, I just -- I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know,” Ox’s voice comes muffled from Harvar’s hand, his lips dragging
against the weapon’s palm. “I didn’t know,” as if it’s a mantra, an explanation
and apology and comfort all at once, but his fingers are dragging at Harvar’s
clothes and pressing skin-on-skin and the weapon can’t think straight to stop
him, to even decide if he wants Ox to stop. The meister’s hand is still
shaking, the way it did the first time he touched Harvar’s weapon form and
accidentally shocked himself, but the effect is going the other way, this time,
Harvar’s body is arching up against the touch with reflexive need, vibrating
with intensity and want.
Harvar drops his hand from Ox’s mouth, lifts it instead to cover his own face
and hide the flushing heat of instant response to the contact of the meister’s
hand on him. Ox’s fingers land on Harvar’s cheek, his palm pressing in against
the weapon’s cheekbone like his unsteady hands can offer any support at all;
Harvar shivers and Ox’s fingers wrap around him, hesitate, then start to move,
stroking over him like he’s imagined for more than a year now. It’s not like he
imagined, not as smooth or as practiced and he’s hot with embarrassment as much
as pleasure. It’s better, better than the cool perfection of his imagination,
to have Ox’s hand shaking with nerves and the throb of Harvar’s own bruises
under his skin in counterpoint to the pull of the meister’s fingers, because in
his imagination it was always himself, in the end, and this self-conscious
almost-panic that is racing through his blood and sending his heart pounding
out of rhythm is all due to Ox himself, idiotic and brilliant and perfect just
as he is.
“Oh my god,” Ox says, soft and stunned, and Harvar groans at the reverent tone
of his meister’s voice and is suddenly impossibly, anxiously close.
“Don’t stop,” he blurts, and drops his hand from his face so he can grab a
handful of Ox’s shirt to hold him still. When he opens his eyes Ox is staring
at him, eyes wide and mouth open, and Harvar doesn’t think about his own face
at all, just drinks in all the elements of Ox’s -- the swelling collecting in
his lower lip, the dark-dilation of his eyes, the faint freckles over the
bridge of his nose and cheekbones.
Ox swallows hard, his gaze flicking between Harvar’s eyes like he’s looking for
a clear-written answer. “Is this okay?” he says, or starts to say, and the
motion of his mouth on the words is too much, unbearable intensity together
with the friction of his hand.
“Oh,” Harvar says, “God,” and he’s coming, too fast to brace himself for the
shuddering pleasure through his body. He curls in around Ox’s hold, brings his
head forward so fast his forehead cracks against the meister’s and Ox jerks
away with a reflexive hiss. It hurts, there’s a throb of dull ache from the
impact, but Harvar is too lost to feel it properly, it’s just part of the waves
of sensation pouring through him.
It feels like he comes forever, like the world ceases to exist for a moment
while his thoughts fly apart in an eternity of satisfaction. Then he gasps for
air, blinks sight back into existence, and realizes that he’s rocked forward,
pressed his forehead into Ox’s shoulder and that his hand is still clinging to
the meister’s shirt. It takes conscious effort to release him, even more to
pull away from the safety of the other’s shoulder; Harvar has to steel himself,
fix his eyes on the floor before he can make himself lean back. It’s not until
his shoulders hit the wall that Ox lets him go and pulls his hand away.
“Jesus,” the meister blurts. Harvar can’t make himself look at the other boy’s
face but he’s flushing anyway, embarrassment replacing satisfaction under his
skin.
“I’m sorry,” he says to the floor. It’s almost a whisper but it’s the best he
can do; he’s going cold with shame and embarrassment and misery, he just wants
to go now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t --” But he did, at least some part of him, and
the words die in his throat. Ox lifts his hand from Harvar’s cheek and the
weapon moves, twists to pull away before the meister grabs his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Leaving,” Harvar snaps. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Don’t.” Ox sounds weird, strained and breathless. “Harvar, look at me.”
Harvar tries to fight it, for a moment, but habit and training run too deep,
he can’t refuse that voice. His head turns in towards the other, he starts to
look up just as Ox comes in, so the other boy’s mouth misses his and catches
his jaw instead.
By right that ought to stop the meister, or at least slow him down, but Ox
presses a kiss into Harvar’s bruised skin and then comes across to catch his
mouth instead. That’s his tongue sliding over Harvar’s mouth, warm and
demanding, and Harvar is too shocked to do anything but instinctively respond
to that and open his mouth. Ox’s fingers tighten against the back of his neck,
Ox’s tongue comes past his lips, and when the meister’s sticky fingers close on
Harvar’s wrist and drag his hand forward to press against clothing it takes a
minute for Harvar to piece together what he’s feeling. Then it hits him, around
the point that he’s shifting his fingers to get a better sense and Ox rocks
forward against the contact and hisses in reaction against his mouth.
Harvar makes an incoherent noise of surprise into Ox’s mouth and the meister
pulls back, lets his hold on Harvar’s wrist go so he can reach for his belt and
Harvar can blurt, “I thought you liked girls.”
“I do,” Ox says, the words gone high and shaky as Harvar moves his hand.
“I thought you only liked girls,” Harvar clarifies. Ox has his belt open; the
weapon pulls at the button of his slacks, the meister’s hand comes down on his
shoulder so the other boy can brace himself.
“I hadn’t considered the alternatives much,” Ox manages. Harvar lets his shirt
go in favor of getting the meister’s pants open and down a few inches, closes
his fingers around the meister’s cock so Ox groans and rocks himself in closer
for more contact. “The evidence would suggest otherwise.”
“You’re so --” Harvar starts. He means to say ‘dumb’ or ‘ridiculous’ or
something similarly insulting, but what comes out of his mouth is “Amazing.”Ox
blinks, stares at him for a moment, so Harvar is gazing up at the meister’s
face when he moves his hand and sees the other boy’s expression collapse into
startled pleasure.
It’s trickier than Harvar expected. The angle is different than anything he’s
done before, the other boy’s movements keep throwing him off, and when he
starts out slow like he always does with himself Ox groans “More, Harvar,”
until the weapon speeds so much he’s sure he’s going to hurt the other boy. But
that seems to be what Ox wants, a pace so face Harvar can feel his arm starting
to cramp just from how quickly he’s moving, and he’d complain if it weren’t for
the way Ox’s face goes soft, relaxes into anticipation until he looks calmer
than Harvar has ever seen him. He hovers there for a minute, head tipped back
and mouth slightly open; then he sighs, the sound warm and rich with
satisfaction, and shivers as he comes over Harvar’s fingers.
Harvar is still staring at his meister’s face when Ox opens his eyes, refocuses
himself on the present and looks down at the weapon’s expression. He grins,
languid delight in the expression, and Harvar closes his open mouth and starts
to flush again.
Ox slides sideways, pulls away from Harvar’s touch just long enough to come
around to lean against the wall and press his shoulder in against the other
boy’s. Harvar lets himself relax against the wall, looks down at the utter mess
they’ve made of his clothes and contemplates mustering the energy to care. It’s
not worth it, he decides, not when his limbs are heavy with exhaustion and
satisfaction and the slow build of pain from their fight.
“You could have just said something,” Ox points out from beside him.
“No,” Harvar says. “I couldn’t have.”
Ox laughs, leans sideways to bump his shoulder heavily against Harvar’s, and
when he reaches out for the weapon’s hand Harvar is the one who laces their
fingers together over their scraped knuckles.
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