Chapter Text
After Kaworu shows him the outside world, Shinji thinks nothing can be happy ever again.
There’s a sick feeling in his heart that’s on slow burn, rising up in his throat every time he dares to take a breath, and the cool metal around his neck sighs and expands with every swallow, thrums with every choked off little noise.
His fingers flex and his jaw moves soundlessly, and he thinks back to a piano, a little haven in a blood-red dead world, he thinks back to bright stars overhead in the night, and thinks, was it all pointless?
It’s just hiding away, Shinji realises, and it’s what he’s best at, and it’s what he wants to do, even surrounded by memories of dead friends, even living in a hell everyone says he created – did he create it?
He’s selfish, he’s a coward, he knows it. He’s angry that he can’t flee to a place with no fear and hurt, he’s angry that his haven – Nagisa and his – will be intruded on by painful thoughts, and he’s angry that that’s the only thing he can think of. That only selfish thoughts run through his head.
Shinji lies on his back staring up at the ceiling, his SDAT clenched between white-knuckled fingers, and when the door slides open and silver, ruffled hair appears, he slides his eyelids shut and pretends to be asleep.
“Ikari Shinji-kun?” he hears, and that soft, lilting voice is gentler than he deserves, and warmer than his wildest dreams. Shinji has never failed to react to that voice, and he doesn’t fail now; a barely-there twitch, almost imperceptible to one not watching closely.
He knows Kaworu is watching closely. The thought sends a measure of heat thrilling through his veins.
“Come and play the piano with me,” Kaworu says, and he’s right there – right at the bed, one hand outstretched. Shinji rolls over and takes it, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and feels every notch in his finger joints, passes his thumb over Kaworu’s knuckles, and finally allows himself to be pulled up, his own sick heat assuaged by the coolness of the other boy’s palm.
*
He was wrong.
Kaworu is not cool, he is humming with heat, and where the line of Shinji’s back joins with Kaworu’s chest he feels warm – not the sticky, clammy burning of before, but a dry flame, licking through the thin fabric of his shirt and spreading tentatively through his body.
Shinji holds back embarrassing gasps behind tightly pressed lips as Kaworu takes a hold of his wrists on the piano and gently presses down on the fingers, correcting his position. He’s saying something, too, something about switching to the fourth finger after the D, but the words wander aimlessly past Shinji’s head, and he gazes with half-lidded eyes at their hands, snow-white and tan, entwined over the keyboard.
Your fingers are really good for piano, Shinji thinks, in admiration of the other boy’s graceful, long fingers, and it’s not until Kaworu falls silent behind him that Shinji realises that he’s voiced his thoughts aloud.
“Ikari-kun?” Kaworu says, wonderingly, and Shinji cringes.
“I’m – I’m sorry!” he splutters out, fumbling. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I do want to learn, it’s just...”
Shinji trails off, not sure where he even intended his words to go – but he only has to live with one, two seconds of red-faced shame before Kaworu slips one arm under the crook of his elbow, leans in close, and sits down next to him.
“Nagisa-kun, what –“
“I’m afraid I have to disagree,” Kaworu cuts him off smoothly, charmingly, curling his fingers around Shinji’s and turning his palm over. The absence of heat at his back has replaced by the spreading of warmth in his hands, and Shinji swallows, at the gentleness of the touch and the proximity of another person.
“I think it is a misconception that long fingers are well suited to playing the piano,” Kaworu muses, unaware of Shinji gulping as his thumb absentmindedly traces circles on his palm. “For instance, I believe that it is a larger palm, not longer fingers, that allow for a stronger performance.”
He lets go of Shinji’s hand and turns his own over for comparison, his fingers splayed out. “I believe it is your fingers that are better for playing piano,” Kaworu says, and turns to smile directly at him.
Shinji looks down. His own palms radiate heat and look positively brown compared to Kaworu’s. The fingers are shorter, stubbier, a little thicker than Kaworu’s graceful digits, like...like a mud crab compared to a delicate spider. He finds it more than a little hard to believe that he could possibly be better than the other boy at anything, most definitely not at piano, and the disbelief must show on his face, because in the next second Kaworu is leaning closer still, so close that Shinji can see his pale eyelashes, almost feel them.
“Your heart is fragile, but your fingers are strong, Ikari-kun,” Kaworu breathes, and his breath tickles against Shinji’s skin. He feels hot, but it’s the kind of heat that rushes to his face, self-conscious and shy.
“Call...call me Shinji,” Shinji says, and tears his eyes away from the other boy. He’s so close that he could...
Kaworu slides forward that tiny little inch more and brushes his lips against Shinji’s, the lightest, softest touch he’s ever felt, and Shinji jerks and pulls apart, eyes wide.
“Nagisa, what –“
“Only if you call me Kaworu,” Kaworu replies.
Shinji shrinks, pulling his shoulders closer. He’s suddenly struck by how strange this all is; how, despite everything he’s done, everything he is, there is one person who is yet to fling him away in disgust and horror and hate, ignore or slap or yell at him.
There’s one person who sits by him at a piano, a solemn smile touching the corners of his face as he guides Shinji’s fingers around the keys.
And Shinji’s too scared to ask why, too scared because maybe Kaworu will go away if he does, so he shakes instead, gripping the corners of the piano stool, squeezing his eyes shut to make the burning go away and hoping, hoping that Kaworu will (not) see.
His eyelids can’t contain the overflow of tears. They fall, dripping and disappearing into the black fabric of his trousers, they slide in a slow curve around his cheek to his chin, they slide into the corner of his lips, and when Shinji gasps for breath he tastes salt water, cold and wet and sour.
“Shinji-kun!”
Shinji doesn’t dare to look, can’t look – it’s embarrassing – and he’s still trying to pretend that he’s not crying even if he is, even if Kaworu’s staring –
“Shinji, look at me.”
Kaworu shifts on the piano stool, his arms reaching out again to clasp around Shinji’s waist more securely, and Shinji’s bones lose their strength. He falls, his face in Kaworu’s chest, his arms lying loosely and uselessly, and he can’t look him in the eye so he settles for his skin. A warm, constant pulse echoes against his cheek.
With the effort of a dying man reaching for the light, Shinji clutches at Kaworu’s shirt, sinking his fingers deep. “It’s true, isn’t it?” he whispers, the words catching in his throat and cracking and almost too soft to be heard. “It’s my fault...isn’t it? All – all my fault...”
Kaworu is quiet, and Shinji clenches his fists harder, presses his face closer, and feels the wetness soaking into Kaworu’s shirt, sticking to his skin. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, uneven and ragged.
“Shinji, please,” Kaworu says, and rolls his body forwards, slowly pushing him back. “Listen to me.”
When Shinji is almost upright again, Kaworu cups his cheeks between his hands, thumbs stroking away the tears. He kisses him again, on the forehead, and then draws back.
“Shinji, the past cannot be erased,” Kaworu murmurs softly, diving in between words, pressing dry lips over damp cheeks, soothing. “What is left is to look to the future. To see strength after strength arise from a broken heart. Shinji-kun, don’t lose hope for a brighter tomorrow, for Lilim cannot feel pain in their hearts without first knowing love.”
Kaworu brushes sweaty strands of hair away from Shinji’s face. “This is not the future you wished for...but it is a future you...we can change.”
Shinji finally, finally looks up, and there is Kaworu, silver hair bright in the afternoon sun, his red eyes soft with emotion, his mouth creased in worry. Shinji’s own tears have dried, partly due to wonder overcoming soul crushing guilt and fear, partly because of Kaworu’s soft touches. Dark blue meets warm red and he flushes suddenly, a hand making an abortive motion to cover his mouth, and looks away. His breathing is still somewhat erratic, no matter how hard he tries to control it.
“Sorry,” Shinji says finally, not really sure what he’s apologising for – it’s an amalgamation of many different things, he thinks. “Sorry. I...I’m sorry.”
Kaworu smiles, and nudges him, and turns back to the piano. “No need to apologise, Shinji-kun,” he replies, and at last Shinji feels a sort of light entering his heart, freeing his chest and clearing his lungs.
Red enters his cheeks, though, as a consequence, and Shinji reaches up to faintly touch his face. “Kaworu,” he says slowly. “What was...what was that...” He waves his hands around helplessly, flustered, the blush now spreading down the back of his neck and making parts of him tingle in nervous mortification.
“Just a hint, Shinji-kun,” Kaworu hums, eyes closed, and plays something, fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys. His head tilts towards Shinji, and an eye opens by just a crack. “One that you may return at any time. If that is what you wish, that is.” The eye closes again.
Shinji blushes harder.
For the next few minutes, he watches Kaworu play, the tinkling of notes in the higher register almost therapeutical, comforting and peaceful against the backdrop of his heart stuttering along, beating nervously in the presence of another – warm – person. His eyes are scratchy and sore, and Shinji’s sure his face looks like a blotchy mess, but for now, he doesn’t mind, because there are more pressing things to think about –
Shinji’s hands are loosely curled in his lap, and he looks slowly between them and Kaworu with his serene expression, eyebrows arched and eyelashes fluttering just ever so slightly.
Just a hint, he whispers to himself, and, mustering his courage, turns to Kaworu, leaning up and closer, nose colliding awkwardly with his cheek before his lips follow, and Shinji thinks that this is the poorest excuse of a kiss that he’s ever seen, and he’s ready to just pull back –
Kaworu’s eyes snap open and his hands jump on the piano, and Shinji’s not a pianist but he’s a musician and he can definitely tell that note wasn’t intended, but he’s never heard Kaworu slip before so it’s a novelty – and even though he’s embarrassed as hell and completely red he’s congratulating himself for the effect he’s had.
But when Kaworu turns, Shinji forgets about feeling accomplished, forgets about congratulating himself, because Kaworu is red, he, too, has heat brushed across his cheeks, high spots of colour on an otherwise pale face. His eyes are wide and his mouth slightly parted, and before Shinji’s eyes he takes a breath, tiny and with the slightest tremor just before the inhale.
“Shinji?” Kaworu says, very faintly, the red just slightly receding yet still prominent over the bridge of his nose.
Just a hint...
Shinji manages to gather himself together enough to offer a smile, pathetic enough together with the remnants of puffy eyes, but still no less sincere for the effort.
“It’s just a hint, Kaworu-kun,” he murmurs.
Kaworu grasps Shinji’s arms and pulls him to his feet, the stool scraping across the chipped tiles as it is shoved away. “One that I can return?” he whispers, and heat from where he is gripping Shinji is traversing all along his arms, up his biceps, through his body, down, down – he feels hot now, heady with feeling.
He nods, yes, and Kaworu surges forward, his lips soft and pliant and warm and hard all at once, pressing languorously at Shinji’s mouth, and when he opens it in an involuntary breath Kaworu’s there, inside, hot and wet and Shinji fumbles backwards with his hands, the heels of his palms colliding with the piano keys with a discordant thump, and he almost breaks away with a startled yelp.
Kaworu’s there, though, clasping his hands around Shinji’s hips and lifting him onto the keys. He really does let out that startled yelp as more sounds drift out from under the lid of the piano, the keys giving away beneath him. He cringes as the piano makes new sounds with every shift of movement, but Kaworu merely laughs and hooks his hands around Shinji’s legs, easing the pressure.
Then, he leans back down again, the soft touch of his lips on Shinji’s, and he might be imagining it but there’s a slight edge of timidity about it, like Kaworu’s suddenly afraid – no, how could that possibly be true if it was Kaworu – ?
He’s not imagining it. Kaworu’s hands pressed against the underside of Shinji’s legs are trembling, and it’s minute but it’s there. He’s not sure why, or how, but Kaworu’s the closest to nervous he’s ever seen him, and a terrifying ache rises from his chest, momentarily taking his breath away.
Shinji moves his knees apart and locks his legs around Kaworu’s waist, as tightly as he dares, and throws his arms around his shoulders. Kaworu lets out a startled gasp and Shinji arches up, kissing his throat, the underside of his jaw, making his way upwards again. He’s clutching onto a warm inferno of emotion and heat with his four limbs, and the feeling of tight muscle across Kaworu’s shoulders, human skin through black material sends sparks of white-hot shivers through his body.
“Shinji, I – ah – “ Kaworu’s voice is muffled as he buries himself against Shinji’s shoulder, locking himself as close as possible. “Shinji...”
Shinji squeezes his legs just that little bit tighter, pulling Kaworu in just that little closer, and suddenly becomes aware of a very different heat pressing against his groin as Kaworu’s hips meld against his body. His breath is a quick, sharp inhale as he realises that Kaworu is hard, and he’s pressing against Shinji’s body, his thick tangle of hair on his head hiding his face as he squirms further into his shoulder.
He lets out a shuddery, shaking breath, steels himself, then experimentally pushes upwards, rubbing against Kaworu, relieving the hardness that is beginning, too, to form in his pants. A choked off moan spills pasts his lips before he can stop himself, but it’s nothing compared to the whimper that escapes Kaworu’s mouth, a tiny little noise from the back of his throat that peeks out into the world.
Still holding on tightly, Kaworu raises his head, slightly cross-eyed and a high flush on his cheeks, colour spilling onto a previously pale canvas. Somewhat delirious from the sensation of rubbing against Kaworu, Shinji decides that he rather prefers him like this, his perfect composure torn asunder, his eyes wide and unfocused, his chest moving quickly, in time with the soft sounds that emerge from his mouth.
Who’s more fragile? Shinji thinks, before diving right back to Kaworu’s mouth, his shyness falling away. Kaworu also feels like this. Kaworu wants him. Wants him.
Determined not to start crying again, lest Kaworu becomes concerned, Shinji thrusts upwards, grinding together with Kaworu with the backdrop of the piano’s plip-plop with every movement of his hips. Kaworu starts moaning in honest, and Shinji’s groans in response are no less vigorous despite his efforts to contain them. His body is a hot mess of pleasure and love and mindless euphoria, and he doesn’t mind one bit. He feels Kaworu speed up, their rhythm becoming a frantic thrusting and grinding against each other that’s less of a rhythm and more of a thrashing current, swirling and gyrating and sending endless waves of pleasure to Shinji’s brain.
As he nears his breaking point, Shinji cards his fingers through Kaworu’s hair, shaking with the effort yet managing not to pull at it through all the sensations that he’s feeling. His hair is soft and light and ticklish, yet sweaty at the roots, perspiration beading at his temples and shining lightly on his brow.
“Kaworu – !” Shinji gasps, as the friction between their trapped erections becomes too much. He pitches upwards, crying out incoherently as the heat inside him explodes outwards. Kaworu follows only a second later, jerking uncontrollably and gasping for air as he releases, collapsing on top of Shinji in a trembling mass of long loose limbs.
Wetness presses between them, but Shinji ignores this to lean back against the smooth black of the piano, bringing Kaworu with him, his eyes sliding shut in sated exhaustion. His legs are still entwined around Kaworu’s back, but he hasn’t the strength nor the motivation to remove them, and so he hangs there, quietly boneless save for his rapid breathing. Kaworu’s sharp ribcage nudges at his own chest with every quick intake of breath, and Shinji guiltily revels at the feeling of someone laying so close, close enough that their heartbeats almost align through the thin fabric of their shirts.
It is only after his fluttering heart has settled that Shinji speaks, and he regrets not doing so earlier because it’s now that he feels all the more awkward.
“Kaworu-kun?” he whispers, and Kaworu raises his head from its languid doze against Shinji’s chest. “What was...what was that for...?”
“If the mind cannot accept a rightful joy, then perhaps it is the body’s duty to do so,” Kaworu offers, and snuggles in closer. “You are worthy of love, Ikari Shinji-kun. I love you.”
Instantly, Shinji’s face is painted a darker red than when he had been thrusting against Kaworu, the words settling heavily – not a bad heavily, but still weighted – in his stomach.
“You – you do?” he says, and immediately wishes he could take back the high pitched crack of his voice as he stutters, flustered and flattered and heartwarmed.
Kaworu smiles and finally pushes up, straightening and seemingly unbothered by the dampness through his underwear. Shinji, too, rises, unhooking his legs and sliding off the piano, casting a guilt-ridden look backwards as it lets out one last plaintive cry. He winces as his pants pull back against his groin, feeling somewhat dirty and sticky, yet does his best to appear as unaffected as Kaworu does.
“Shall we find a new change of clothes?” Kaworu inquires, as if he’s talking about the weather, but the tiniest of sly smiles in the corner of his mouth tells Shinji a different story.
Shinji fights down a rising sense of disappointment of finally parting ways for the day, and nods mutely, looking down. He follows as Kaworu turns to leave, somehow managing to lag behind, yet still appear in step with the other boy.
When they reach the fork that signals the parting of their ways – a long, painful time in coming, with Shinji acutely aware of each uncomfortable step – he looks up, paints a smile, and inches towards the right –
– only for his hand to be snatched, and tugged back towards the left, Kaworu’s fingers loosely curled around his and a bright, open smile playing across his lips.
“Where are you going, Shinji? My room is this way.”
Shinji blinks. “Your – your room? Why – ?”
Kaworu continues to tug him along, the wetness in his pants forgotten for now, humming a quiet tune under his breath. They come to another juncture, and Kaworu beams at him.
“Well, I have extra clothes that you can borrow,” he says. “My pants may be a bit long for you, but they can easily be rolled upwards to fit for now. After all, it is only for the time being.”
They come to a stop in front of a door similar to Shinji’s. Kaworu palms it open, gesturing for him to enter, and then follows suit. “Besides,” he continues, moving over to the clothes mechanism. “I thought you might like to enjoy the stars with me again tonight. We could bring blankets, and pillows, to keep out the cold, and build...what is it that Lilim call it...? Cubbyhouses. We could build cubbyhouses.”
Shinji’s face transforms between a varying set of expressions, finally settling for a weak laugh with his brow puckered in the worst state of confusion. “You can’t build cubbyhouses out of pillows and blankets,” is the only thing he manages as Kaworu pulls out two sets of black trousers and underwear.
Kaworu pauses, pants in hand, a sort of crestfallen air about him, but soon recovers himself, pressing one set of clothes into Shinji’s arms. “Well, that, too, is fine,” he says, quite cheerfully, as he unbuckles his belt. “Staying with you, Shinji-kun, is more than enough for me. The blankets can be used for warmth, as I previously suggested.”
Shinji turns away as soon as Kaworu’s hands hook through his belt, red burning at his cheeks and ears. He peeks over his shoulder after a moment to make sure Kaworu isn’t looking, then gingerly peels away his own trousers and leaves them in a pile on the floor.
“I’d...um...I’d like that,” he murmurs after he’s done changing, wondering how Kaworu still looks so sure while averting his own shy gaze, his blush still creeping down his neck. Privately, though, he wonders if it’s an act, if Kaworu is really like what he was...before, when they were at the piano. Shinji’s almost dizzy with the heat that’s still passing through him.
He doesn’t think he minds the feeling overmuch.
*
After dinner – served in Kaworu’s room – they strip Kaworu’s bed of its sheets and pillows, then make the journey to Shinji’s room to do the same. It’s not hard work, and they have fun doing it, bunching the blankets up and occasionally tripping over the ends of them, helping each other up and continuing on their way. They’re now resting, a few metres away from the piano, swaddled in blankets and looking out of their cocoon to the evening sky, with the stars only just becoming visible to the naked eye.
Kaworu is snuggled up by Shinji’s side, his arms wrapped around his torso and hands encircling his, and the two listen to the quiet inhale and exhale of each other’s breaths as their vision soars to the heavens. It’s quiet – Shinji doesn’t feel the need to make small talk, and perhaps it’s audacious, but he believes Kaworu understands and accepts his reticence to speak – but it’s a soft kind of silence, one of companionship and empathy and the lack of conversation doesn’t come from a lack of connection but rather the opposite.
Shinji is still hot, and Kaworu’s skin is a spark of fire against his. Within the blankets, he doesn’t even feel the cold of the tiles beneath them, only the feel of soft sheets against his skin, and Kaworu’s chest pressed against his shoulders and side, expanding in time with his deep, even breaths.
He breaks his gaze with the stars above for a minute to look down, nuzzling Kaworu’s fluffy hair out of the way to instead stare at a neat pile of pyjamas sitting innocently off to the side; Shinji’s patterned, Kaworu’s striped.
He had grabbed them before they left for the wide open room with the piano, and when Kaworu asked, he had merely flushed and said: “What if our clothes get dirty again?”
*
From where Kaworu stands, he looks at things from a certain perspective.
Kaworu knows that there’s only a limited amount of time that he is blessed with in every life he lives, and so, every time, without fail, he dedicates every moment he can to bringing Shinji happiness.