"Perhaps we can do this at a later time," he said tentatively as Dilandau wrenched at his red-armored jacket, yanking open the fastenings with a snarl. The warlord ripped off his gloves and jerked out of the long jacket, throwing it onto the floor, then opened the window and leaned out, bracing his hands on either side of the stone frame. Gatti studied the tensed body with a mixture of desire and trepidation. A couple of days had passed since their fateful encounter in the command center, and he shivered at the memory of that kiss, still rocked at the sight of seeing Dilandau break down in front of him. Gatti felt a pang of sorrow at his lord's distress over this weakness, as he saw it; but it had given the second the chance to perhaps acheive what he had dreamed about since first meeting him.

After he had assured Dilandau that he would never leave him - indeed, only death would take him from his side - the warlord had quickly reverted to his usual, smirking, sadistic self. With one exception: he wasn't quite so quick to hit his second-in-command when he spoke up. Gatti was grateful for this new patience, but it wasn't enough. He clenched his teeth in frustration: how could he proceed? If he said anything, Dilandau would probably laugh at him, then torture him for awhile for his impudence. Then things would return to their infuriating normalness and he would be back to square one.

Look at him, he thought darkly, a slow burn running through him. Why does he always get to act any way he wants? He gets to scream and stamp his feet; he acts like a spoiled brat and I just have to sit here and take it. Dilandau turned around and glared at him, his face twisted in baffled frustration, and Gatti's heart immediately went out to him, wanting to do something, anything to comfort him. The warlord stomped back to the table and threw himself into his chair, resting his chin on his fist with a short sigh.

"No, we've got to get this done," he replied, then winced and straightened up, stretching his shoulder back and grimacing. Gatti stood, concerned.

"My lord?"

"It's nothing," Dilandau snorted. "I must have pulled something in that last exercise. I'm not used to having just five of my elite to work with." Gatti crushed his instant anger and kept a prudent silence. He had broken Guimel's arm last week; luckily it was just a hairline fracture and would quickly heal. But the curlyhaired slayer was out for at least two more weeks, and Gatti missed his company out on the field. The warlord was rubbing his shoulder with one hand now, wincing again in pain, and he felt his heart twist. He silently drew off his gloves and came around behind him. Quelling his inner qualms, he laid his hands on his lord's shoulder and gently began to knead the knotted muscles. Dilandau immediately stiffened under his touch, then relaxed with a sigh, dropping his head down and closing his eyes. Gatti stared at the gleaming silver hair, amazed at both his own boldness and his lord's acquiescence. The hard muscles slowly unknotted and Gatti caressed the satiny skin, feeling the familiar, unanswered desire rising within him.

Dilandau stood up suddenly and turned around, scowling. Gatti snapped to attention, despair replacing desire, waiting for the inevitable hard slap, if not worse.

"I should kill you for presuming to touch me without permission," the warlord growled. "But..." He smiled slowly and walked around the chair as Gatti turned to face him.

"You will never leave me," he said softly and, taking him in his arms, kissed him. Gatti could feel his lord's heart beating against his chest; their thighs touching, and his desire returned in a raging flood.

"Please, my lord, please," he gasped when Dilandau broke the kiss. The warlord slowly unfastened his blue armored jacket, gently biting his neck. He slipped the jacket from him, letting it fall to the floor, and stripped him of his undershirt, running his fingers down his chest, his stomach; his touch fire on his skin.

"Have you ever done this before, Gatti-san?" he asked with a half-smile and the second felt a stab of terror at the thought he might stop.

"Yes... no... not everything," he got out, suddenly convinced that his relative inexperience would bore him. Not that, anything but that, he thought incoherently, staring up at the large glittering red eyes.

"Please," he whispered. "I want to be yours, completely." Dilandau took his face in his hands and kissed him again, sliding his tongue deeply into his mouth and going on and on and on, until harsh groans were being ripped out of him and he wanted to scream, beg, plead for him to release this unbearable tension; but he dare not free his mouth, could not free himself, never never oh God...

Dilandau pulled his mouth away from his and stared at him, the red eyes now aflame with desire; the pale cheeks flushed. Gatti stood absolutely still, panting for breath. The warlord drew one thumb gently across his second's lower lip, then smiled.

"Then come with me," he said and drew him stumbling into the bedroom.

* * *