Naaza usually kept to himself. Rajura had always thought it was because he hated the world so much, but he was beginning to suspect it was in actuality due to the younger man's inability to behave properly in social settings. He had bad manners when he ate. He interrupted when others were talking. He also had a peculiar habit of muttering to himself under his breath, hands fluttering as if he were having a conversation with an invisible acquaintance.

Though he knew Naaza's life had been shit and no one had ever taught him how to act like a civilized being, it drove Rajura crazy.

Naaza had his own strange, yet oddly compelling, ways about him. When he was lucid enough, he could carry on an intelligent, meaningful conversation. His articulation was puzzling; he could speak so well and without any of the gutter talk Rajura had always expected of him. How he had learned polite speech, but no other niceties of society left the older man rather curious.

He was also a brilliant healer; he could make any injury or illness better. Rajura didn't know much about medicine or herbs himself, but Naaza was a natural. You couldn't cross him, or you'd be facing the possibility of poison tea; he was just as skilled with poison as with medicines.

And he was deadly with a sword.

Rajura found him intriguing, in a way he couldn't explain. Though he'd aged and filled out some since he was recruited, he was still scrawny and thin. The power housed in his wiry frame was astounding; in hand-to-hand combat he wasn't that strong, but put a blade in those hands and he was lethal. His movements –long, lean and graceful, swooping in on his target- were captivating; watching him practice was one of Rajura's guilty little pleasures. He enjoyed the art of sword so much; it was almost as if he were dancing, rather than fighting.

And he was so quirky, so intelligent. Rajura hadn't expected him to be so smart. But he was a clever, calculating man, whose ideas were usually somewhat obscure and crazy, but often effective. He didn't play nice with others, but if you gave him a task and told him to get it done, he was usually flawless in his execution. Usually.

He was a strange man and Rajura's respect for him had been grudging in the beginning.

Over time, that respect had become genuine. Rajura didn't doubt that Naaza could have been somebody, if his unfortunate looks hadn't left him feared and loathed by the world's general populous. Instead, he was a pawn in some one else's game; a man with the behavior and maturity of a child. He got excited over the simplest little things and lost his head easily over others. He was crazy and childish and everything Rajura generally found obnoxious.

Yet he was utterly fascinating.

Rajura hated himself for taking an interest in Naaza. He didn't need any one, especially not an eccentric green-haired lunatic who would rather talk to himself than another person.

It was a dangerous dance in the beginning, and Naaza didn't know the steps. He shied away from the casual touches –a light brush of the arm here, a bump of hips in a narrow hallway there- and didn't understand more overt come-ons. Rajura was surprised at how innocent Naaza had turned out to be; the puzzled look on his face every time he was touched outside combat and training made the white-haired man want to laugh. He couldn't help smirking when he made that expression surface, it was just so damn amusing to see that cocky bastard confused.

It was a hollow satisfaction, though. He wanted more.

Naaza was delicious in bed; pale and writhing, sweat slicked and pliable. He never argued against what Rajura wanted and his taste was acidic, addicting, toxic. He was poison, though not the kind that caused instant death. Instead, he would seep into the veins and stay there, dormant, and kill slowly, with the passage of time. He hardly did anything, just clung to Rajura, who wondered which of them was the spider, and which the fly, and tangled his long fingers in unruly curls of silver and pulled.

Getting Naaza to respond with things other than tugs on his hair or fingernails clawed down Rajura's back had been difficult, but it paid off in the end. He was still slightly violent –the scratches and occasional bites were more than enough to prove it- but participated more, making soft, throaty sounds and whimpering beautifully with his climax, body trembling, face buried in the crook of Rajura's neck.

Rajura was never sure if it was Naaza he enjoyed so much, or the fact that he could make this proud, violent man melt beneath him.

He never mentioned it to any one else; Naaza was his dirty little secret. If Anubis knew, he never commented on it. Rajura was never quite sure what he and Naaza talked about, but he was fairly certain it didn't involve sex. Naaza mostly ignored Kayura; Rajura felt safe to assume this weird, yet satisfying, relationship he had with the green-haired man was a secret.

It only bothered him in rare moments after, when Naaza was curled up and sleeping. He always slept the same way, folded in on himself. He never let his guard down; even asleep he was on the defense. He never presented Rajura with his back, which bothered the older man. Did Naaza really think Rajura would kill him in his sleep, in the afterglow of sex? Every time, it was exactly the same. Naaza would scrunch up, back against the wall. He usually buried his face in his arm, tousled hair falling over his forehead, sometimes plastered there if he was sweaty. Rajura knew he was trying to protect himself, but it just made him look vulnerable.

Vulnerable. It was a funny word to think of when considering Naaza. Rajura reached over, brushing back the younger man's bangs gently to get a better look at his face. Naaza trembled a little, making an upset sound, and curled in on himself more. The other man regarded him a little longer, watching the subtle movement of his body as he breathed, the twitch of one dusky purple eyelid, and wondered why all of this made him feel guilty, when he couldn't remember ever having been guilty for anything in his life.

Naaza rarely slept through the night. Rajura woke most mornings to find him and his scattered clothing gone. It was for the best, he supposed; the last thing he needed was Anubis or Kayura catching Naaza leaving his room. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what he did, it was just that they didn't need to know.

During the day, Naaza was his usual sullen self. He kept to himself and went about his business quietly, so different from the person he became at night. He wasn't crazy in the moonlight; wasn't brooding. He was still dangerous, but in a completely different way. Rajura knew what was beneath the façade of sleepy disinterest; knew the person Naaza was when he came to life.

A smug grin always crossed his face at the thought that only he knew this vibrant, passionate part of Naaza.

He was never quite sure how Naaza felt about all of it. He never asked. It occurred to him that he might be taking advantage of the younger man, but he only entertained that thought for the barest of seconds. Naaza could say no, after all. Rajura wasn't forcing him; he came at night of his own free will. He justified it to himself with these thoughts, chasing away a nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right with the situation.

It was, then, like a dagger had been shoved unmercifully through his ribs when, one night, Naaza came to him already rumpled. He was as composed as always, eyes lidded sleepily, thin lips drawn into a neat little line on his pale face, the standard non-expression. But his clothes…All wrinkled. His yukata was falling open, exposing one pale shoulder. And he smelled –Rajura's single eye narrowed- of Anubis.

Naaza didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Rajura's first thought was to kill Anubis. How dare he touch what wasn't his? There was no honor in taking what belonged to some one else. And surely he must have taken, for Naaza already had all his needs taken care of. Surely he wouldn't go to Anubis – Anubis, who knew nothing – when he had everything already.

Or perhaps Naaza had gone on his own, bored with what Rajura had to offer, the little whore.

The icy, bitter feeling flowed slowly through his veins, spreading to every last nerve and igniting them with painful, white-hot jealousy, so cold it burned. He trembled with rage; with anger, fists clenching at his side. And still Naaza watched, passive, beetle-black eyes never leaving Rajura's. Naaza's face was still blank, but Rajura knew the message the absent expression would convey: "Come little spider, let me swallow you whole. I will destroy you. And, still, you will come back, because you need me."

Rajura drew himself up, only one scant inch taller than Naaza. He had once been able to make that inch seem intimidating, but Naaza just tipped his head up slightly, gaze still fixed, dark eyes piercing one steel-blue one and stealing a glimpse of Rajura's soul. He smiled a little, and Rajura's hand flashed out.

Naaza stumbled backwards; caught himself at the last moment. The little smile became a grin, manic and taunting, as he rubbed his stinging cheek. His pupils dilated when Rajura struck him again, and he laughed, a dry sound, echoing within the room and escaping through the thin rice paper walls. How dare he? Another blow. How dare he laugh like that, like it was funny. A punch this time. He was laughing so hard he was crying and Rajura's heart constricted painfully. A joke, was he? Soon he was crying too, though for different reasons he couldn't quite identify.

The wild laughter stopped abruptly, and Naaza wiped blood from his split lip, looking down at his fingers, then back up at Rajura. He watched, fascinated, as Rajura scrubbed at his eye, trying to stop the unwanted tears and maintain some dignity. Rajura lowered his head, hiding behind a curtain of silver curls, and cursed Naaza's ancestors.

He started when cold fingers –Naaza was always cold- lifted his chin and he found himself once again trapped in that dark gaze. Naaza's mouth was bright with blood, one eye purpled, but for once not with makeup. "He never touched me." A pause, "Not that way." A deadly whisper, now, "Only you are allowed."

Rajura felt a little faint.

He sagged a little, into Naaza's waiting arms, and clung to his thin frame. Naaza simply held him, quiet, cracked lip still leaking blood. Stroked his hair a little. Rajura didn't apologize. He wouldn't apologize. It was Naaza's own fault, anyway.

Rajura was never quite sure what had gone through Naaza's mind that night or why he had let that happen. He never asked and Naaza never explained. The younger man seemed satisfied, though; as if he had staged some sort of test, and Rajura had passed.

Naaza stayed, for the first time, the entire night, curling closer to Rajura as he slept.

Rajura lay awake and wondered if perhaps he was losing his mind.