Narcissus

Title: Narcissus

Author: fathom_deep

Rating: NC-17

Length: 2053 words

Other Location(s): http://www.livejournal.com/community/acfiction/16085.html#cutid1

Warnings: Masturbation, people. Sadly.

Disclaimer: I am not making money off of this. I do not own Yazoo, mirrors,
or anything belonging to SquareEnix. I don't own masturbation, either, but if I
did... hmm....

*Contest entry for acfiction on LiveJournal... and the sin is Envy.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Content that he was alone, he put away his thoughts into a box somewhere inside
his mind where he wouldn't have to look at them. He did not like looking at his
thoughts when he was alone; did not like reopening that old box, afraid of what
he might see.

He had the shakes again - he got them whenever they had come achingly close to
finding Mother, only to rediscover it was another false clue, a dumb thread of
hope that lead to another dead end, to nowhere. The mounting frustration spilled
like acid from a lake from Kadaj and therefore, onto his brothers. Outwardly,
Yazoo was not a nervous creature. But he was a creature of habit, and his
habitual way of dealing with his stress had led him into this room, away from
their sight, so he could sit in front of the mirror.

He carefully pulled a chair from the dusty corner. There was a full-length
mirror in the corner. It wasn't remarkable at all, and after a few precursory
blows from his lips he had discovered there was a reflection in it. He used his
gloves, wiping away more and more dust, peeling away the layers of age upon this
cracked, dilapidated figure that stood staring back at him, only to realize that
this figure.. was himself.

He was not sturdy with muscle mass like Loz, nor curvy like Kadaj, but
almost...straight. He looked at himself with a deprecating glare that would have
cracked the mirror further if it had any such power; he disgusted himself in a
sort of dishonest way that depressed people hated themselves for no reason at
all. The creature in the mirror looked back with unambiguous distaste. Its hands
shook; its body was bent slightly, caught in whatever act he was doing just
then. Hair that was almost grey rather than silver or blueish-mercury, fell
flatly to frame his face, only hinting at the lively wavy textures it was
capable of on a good day. He wanted to pull it back from his face, to see what
it might look like, but he knew it would look wretched - he tried it once and
Kadaj was laughing at him fit to split his sides.

What was he doing?

Ah yes. The chair.

He sat down slowly in it, facing the mirror. He didn't understand why he wanted
to look at something for which he had an obvious, painful dislike. But there it
was, and he was looking at the figure in the mirror with a soft sigh, looking
away at last to find some other thing to look at and ignore the dusty box in his
mind, neglected, ignored.

And then, though exhaustion may be the culprit, his reflection moved. And he
hadn't. His head snapped forward. The reflection looked back; shock, mild alarm,
in a face that primarily *didn't* show any emotion at all aside from harmless
boredom. But even that look had its subtle simplistic language; an arch of the
brow, a curve of the lip. Sometimes he smiled when he was feeling particularly
good. But there was no smile now; just open-mouthed shock, then incredulous
dislike again.

Of course it hadn't moved. He was just tired. With half a mind to get up and go
back to bed, he stood... and then his reflection did something absolutely
ridiculous.

It raised its arm and gave him the most obnoxious mock salute he had ever seen.
And then laughed without a sound, lips curving upward, eyes becoming lit by a
fire that Yazoo knew he did not possess himself.

Wonderful. He was looking at a Grade A possessed mirror. Just what he needed.

He approached it cautiously. His hands rose, pressed against the cool glass and
he glared at the mirror.

"You had better stop that," he told his reflection.

'Or what?' his eyes seemed to ask himself. This was getting out of hand.

"Are you going to come and punish me?" he asked himself, and smirked.

Ahhh, he thought. That was better. Suddenly he liked himself a little bit more.
Not so bad now. He let the smirk stay, and reform, and his eyes lit with the
fire again that sparked behind curving lashes and made his pupils stand out like
ink on a lily pad.

The mirrorself reached up, touching the smirk on lips that seemed to become half
of a smirk. A smokey haze came into the eyes; the other hand touched at the
zippered throat, teasing the metal zipper with gloved fingertips. Teeth bared,
he pulled a glove off slowly, dropping the offensive material onto the dusty
floor.

Then the reflected creature brought a bare, white finger to its lips and drew it
slowly into his mouth. Flashing pink tongue, curving underneath the fingertip,
around again. He gasped, jerking backward, realizing... he had been staring at
the mirror. His reflection answered back by staggering backward in return, hand
dropping to his side, and they were one and the same again.

Shock. He stared at himself, looking down at his hand. He *had* taken the glove
off... had he? When? His heart pounding, he sat down in the chair, and shut his
eyes against the demonic reflection.

"Yazoo," he said to himself. "You're crazy."

He brought his hands over his face, stealing only one peek at the mirror. It was
looking back at him, relaxed and unbothered, entirely not himself. The man's
leathers were open, pants unbuttoned once. He must have done it while Yazoo
wasn't watching. The muscular man there was not Yazoo but someone else...
and that enticing gaze was watching him with a mixture of mild amusement,
judging from the curvature of the dark, purple-pink mouth and the eyes which
gleamed in the dark.

But it was more the hair that distracted him. Hair tied back but flowing in a
pure, silver waterfall of blinding light. He wished he could touch it. His eyes
devoured this man in the mirror... and whoever he was, whatever he was, he was
beautiful, strong... and everything that Yazoo was not.

He lowered his hands to his lap and considered the situation as best as he
could. His hands shook a little less, but he was now facing a man in a mirror
that seemingly... no. It was impossible. He was only seeing things.

The box in his mind cracked open a little.

Yazoo stood up.

"I don't know who the hell you are," he growled at the mirror, his voice taking
on a rougher tone than he was accustomed to. "But please go away. I want to
be--"

"Alone?" the mirrorself mouthed, soundless as usual. But you are not alone

and the man rose quietly from his chair. Approached Yazoo. Yazoo would have
shrank away if it weren't for the illusion that took preceden over all else that
there was a solid pane of glass seperating them, as if they stood in two very
similar but seperate rooms. But even so, the man pressed his hands against the
mirror, his skin squeaking against it.

(You want to be what I am...)

Yazoo's mouth went dry. The fingertips groaned over the glass. A forehead
pressed against it, and a steadily growing cloud of breath panted against it,
particially obscuring his face.

(You can't even touch me.)

Yazoo reached without thinking. He pressed his own palms against the other's.
"Can't I?"

(Try me.)

They moved almost immediately, pressing close, closer, as if Yazoo could melt
through the glass and into that man's arms. He was delicious, fuckable, and
every fantasy that had pent up inside that box of frustrations burst loose with
one look; those lips said 'try me'. But he heard 'take me' rolling through his
mind like a clap of thunder across the plains.

How could he touch something he couldn't reach!?

He almost hit the mirror in frustration. His mirrorself smiled.

(Giving up?)

"Never." Yazoo stuck his tongue forward. He lapped at the glass... and he could
almost feel the breath answering against his cheek, as he licked slowly,
luxuriously, over the place where his fantastical reflection's left nipple would
be. He felt a tickle on his chest...ahh, nice. That was nice.

The reflection's hand moved. Down... over the valleys and curving hills,
snapping open zipper and cross-straps and obstruction after obstruction, bare
skin revealed, and a hot, steaming cloud had risen from his mouth onto the
mercury-white glass. He swiped it away and stepped back.

"I know how," Yazoo said with a smirk, and his own hand had buried itself
halfway into his leather pants before he realized what he had discovered. And
his reflection had to obey, didn't it?

The backs of his legs found the chair. In a moment, he was seated. So was the
mirrorself, hand teasing the edge of his belt. He unworked his own with both
hands; they undid their belts with the slow, pressing urgency of those who did
not want to rush but couldn't help themselves. And then, slowly, achingly, he
was suddenly bare and cold in places he wished he never had to be.

But his reflection, ahh... he had a look of pure, lewd pleasure on his face, in
the same situation, answered by a quiet whisper of a moan in his mind.

The scatted fragments of his thoughts were blown away by that one thought, that
one idea, and it was so utterly undeniably irresistible, that he had closed his
hand around his cock before he could stop himself.

And it was electric, this touching, this sensation as he moved over himself,
eyes locked on the mirror, and the man inside of it, moving, legs parted and
quivering as they slid forward, as if to inch as close as they could, but it was
impossible. Still, he bucked slightly, sweat standing in beads on his brow. Oh,
heavenly... heavenly touch, this, and down and up again, harder and when he
pressed just right...

He moaned loudly, tipping his head back with reckless, carnal abandon. Long,
grey silver hair fell behind his head, away from his face and swung like a dingy
curtain in a chilling breeze. "Oh... fuck... fuck me..."

He forced himself to find the mirror man's eyes again; he was watching him with
unmasked desire, bare touch to an already weeping organ. With somewhat
sea-legged clumsiness, he stood up and sidled up to the glass apparatus once
more, and pressed close, sighing against it, fingers gliding wet and unhindered
along sensitive, hard flesh. Yes, touch can be like this, can be beautiful
and make everything unimportant and never stop, never stop this ever again,
never.

Like a shameless whore, he moaned, tracing fingers along his naked stomach,
around a taut, slitted navel, bumping along the muscles that were not his own.
Hard chest, rolling stiff nubs of skin between leather fingertips, drawing
coarser breaths, heightening pleasure.

He didn't need to open his eyes to know that his jaded lover was still on the
other side, and Yazoo was driving him mad with touching himself, driving both of
them down into a downward spiral that blinded and liberated and scorched
mercilessly. He didn't need to think about anything, and it was just
himself, his reflection, and the climbing agony that stole his breath away when
he finally gasped, thrusting forward into delicious, sweat-soaked palm and
fingers. White-washing fire in his veins, the roaring in his ears turning to a
screeching whine that was coming from his own lips, and dissolving back to its
core sound; another moan, and he opened his eyes, staring down at himself and
the sticky, viscous fluid staining the glass.

His pathetic panting reflection stared back at him. This was the obscene vision
of himself: his limp organ in one hand and his other gripping the wooden,
hole-eaten frame of the full length mirror, and the horrified expression that
juxtaposed his recent lust. He stepped away from the mirror, trembling slightly
as he fumbled to rebuckle and rezip everything, and cursed softly for his hands
were still dirty with the all-too-clear, wet evidence of what he had just done.


And when he was covered, erasing the scrawny whiteness of his body underneath
the protective, sanitized black of leather, he pulled the gunblade from its
sheath and put a bullet into the mirror again and again until it broke until a
thousand shards. It was worse now.

There were a hundred thousand little tiny Yazoos with twisted faces of anger and
disgust staring back at him. He rushed out of the room in silent, impotent fury
and shame, and didn't answer the assault of questions waiting on the outside,
where all of his thoughts were hurriedly shoved back into the box and thrown
into the moth-infested corner inside himself, never to be opened again.