Eroica is © Yasuko Aoike.
Rated PG for m/m implications.
This story opens immediately upon the end of "Inspiration: 9/11/01."

Klaus found himself reluctant, somehow, to let go of Dorian's hand.

Dorian's eyes dropped to their clasped hands and then returned to Klaus's face with the first hint of his old mischievous self since he had arrived in Bonn. "If you would like a quick test ...." he suggested.

Klaus's reflexes did not respond. He did not throw Dorian's hand from him, or shout at the thief, or stalk away to the safety of his own apartment.

Perhaps he was too tired to protest. Perhaps it was the strange rapport he had felt with the thief ever since he had called him ... was it only yesterday? Whatever the reason, he didn't withdraw his hand, didn't even back away as Dorian invaded his personal space.

He's going to kiss me, he realized. But ... instead of being disgusted, he found himself thinking, How different could it be from kissing a woman?

Almost immediately, he found out: it was very different.

Dorian was back in his own clothes, but his leather jacket was light enough that Klaus could feel his body heat through it. He was almost as large as Klaus--there was no need to bend down, and when his arms reached around, of their own volition, he actually had to reach. He felt a man's broad back and lean, hard muscles.

Klaus was bombarded with impressions, Dorian's warm breath on his face, the strength of the arms cradling him, the soft creak of his leather jacket, the scents—

Neither of them had bathed since yesterday morning, They had not been doing heavy labor, but this close Klaus smelled leather along with the dusty smell of train travel clinging to Dorian's hair and clothes. And beneath that, the distinct tang of Eroica.

Dorian didn't smell of roses at all today. The only cosmetic scent was the hand soap from the downstairs lavatory, where he had washed his face and hands before lunch.

The touch of breath became a touch of lips, and at the same time their bodies came together, chest to chest, leaning mutually on one another. It felt natural. It felt warm. It felt good.

It felt the way coming home is supposed to feel but somehow never does.

It was the simplest of kisses, but Klaus felt overwhelmed with sensations. It lasted long enough for him to realize that he was not being passively kissed, but was participating.

And then it was over.

The two men stood in the corridor, studying one another. Dorian smiled, but Klaus saw no triumph in his smile. “Have a pleasant rest, Major,” said the thief, and turned away, going into the apartment Klaus had assigned him.

Klaus blinked at the closed door, then turned and walked into the other wing, to his own spartan quarters. As he undressed and lay down, the sensations of the kiss replayed over and over in his mind. What did it mean? Something had happened to him that he could not name—for in all his bewilderment only one thing was certain.

He wanted to kiss Dorian again.

But as weariness took over once again, and his eyes shut even though it was only the middle of the afternoon, his final thought as sleep claimed him was the realization that of what he had felt, strength, comfort, warmth, all the things he had lived without all his life and now, having tasted them, wanted desperately to know again … the one feeling absent from the mix was any trace of sexual desire.

End