A/N: This is (yet another) drabble. I love me some drabble, mm-mm! This time, I decided to write me some Yullen. It's...not the best, but I rather like it.

Disclaimah: I don't own nuthin'. Simple.

Species

You move without thinking. Battle to you is like breathing, like thinking, like memory. Clenching your hand around your weapon is as reflexive and familiar to you as brushing your hair from your eyes. The rush of adrenaline is pleasing; it makes you feel alive and alert, aware of everything around you. Being the warrior you are, these things are second nature, and you fall in without question. Can anyone blame you? The winds of war can't help but carry you on their wings - the soldier pulsing beneath your skin, in your veins, would allow no different. You're human, but you'd rather not acknowledge that part of you. You are The Warrior. You are on a different level from the others. You are of a separate species.

Separate, most especially, from him. You and he cannot coexist in the same environment - your colors clash with his, and, should your paths happen to cross, you would be forced to bare your teeth. You don't want this, and so you remain solitary and separate - you, the lion; he, the lamb. You oust him from your sphere, though you wish for the opposite. It bothers you that he seems to feel the same, and that he, in all his innocence and naïveté, shows it so blatantly and unabashedly. How dare he? How dare he showcase his emotions, when you have worked so hard to keep yours carefully locked away? It infuriates you to think that he has the gall to throw his feelings in your face.

"Kandaaa!" You cringe when he calls your name, and you don't want to see the smile that you know is there, but you turn to face him anyway. You carefully arrange the scowl on your face and muster that special variety of terseness you use just for him. And you answer.

"What now, moyashi?" you growl through clenched teeth. He looks hurt for a moment, as though he expected something different, but it's gone in less time than it takes to register it. There's that smile again. The same one he gives to everybody. You don't dare to wish for something special; if you do that, you're just asking for everything to come crashing. You expel a sharp, impatient sigh, and something about him changes. The way he holds his shoulders, maybe, or the exact curve his lips make when he gives you that stupid grin. You've memorized those things, of course, and so you can tell when they're different.

"Uhm... Nothing. Never mind. Sorry to bother you, Kanda." For some reason, this answer bothers you. It's not like him to give up because of something like a sigh. He's used to those things from you now - they don't throw him off anymore. No, it's something else. Something you can't name. It nags at your brain, and you try to puzzle it out. But why do you care? He isn't worth the aggravation, is he? Since when did it become so important to you to figure out what goes through his head? But it is...isn't it? You heave another heavy sigh and press your fingers to your temple. You feel a headache brewing now. You aren't used to such things, and it irritates you.

"Kanda!" Again, your name is called. But it isn't by him this time. You look up. This time, it's her. She gives you a special smile every time. One uniquely for you and no other. You never smile back, but she doesn't require it of you. She understands you better than he does. She knows you so well - as well as you know him.

"Hm?" you reply noncommittally, giving her your attention. You don't snarl at her, or call her names. You merely listen with a sober expression on your face. And she talks, and her heart hammers. You can't hear it, but you just know. She looks up at you with a hopeful, yet restrained glimmer in her eyes - she knows she'll never have your heart, but still she wishes that it were possible. You wonder why you don't just give in. You don't share her feelings, but she'll be happy, and you won't have to think about him anymore. He'll get the message, once and for all, and you'll be free at last. The tempest in your brain and - dare you think it? - your heart will finally be quelled, and you will know peace. The notion is tempting. You should give her the chance you know she deserves and wants. She's been by your side since childhood, after all, hasn't she? Shouldn't she get her heart's desire just once? For so long, she's known nothing but the pain of denial - all because of you. Isn't it your duty to set things right as only you can?

You don't answer yourself with words - you simply act. Your lips fall gingerly, yet insistently, upon hers, silencing her words. At first, she's confused and hesitant, but when you take her hands in yours, all doubt melts away. She presses against you, and you let her. Her body fits with yours, even through clothing, and you are like two pieces of a puzzle made whole. Her hands fall from yours, and climb up to clutch your shoulders. You take her tiny, fragile waist in your palms - she fits so easily. It's almost frightening, as though you could break her if you pressed too hard. It almost makes you pull away, but you overcome. However, she does disengage, and she looks at you for a long, silent time. Her violet eyes scrutinize your face, which is still dispassionate, but less harsh. She is, you realize, searching for signs of betrayal, of lies. Your eyes soften just a bit, and she is appeased.

"Kanda..." she starts, but her voice becomes thick with tears, and she buries her face into your coat. Slowly, unsure if it's right, you thread your battle-callused fingers through her short, black hair. Your other hand presses consolingly against the small of her back. At last, when she quiets, you take her once more by the hands and lead her away. Out into the hallway, the two of you walk in almost perfect synchronicity, until you reach a door. Your room. At first, she looks puzzled, but realization slowly washes over her delicate features. You nod. She does the same - agreeing, giving you permission. It's dark inside, and the only light emanates from the soft glow of the hourglass, in which your very life - the slowly-wilting lotus - rests in elegance. Neither of you linger there; instead, you lead her to your bed - a futon, reflecting your culturally traditional tastes. She sits, and you follow suit. Again, you initiate a kiss, but something sparks with it, and you find yourself slowly peeling away her clothes. She is trembling, and you realize for the first time that she has never been with a man. It will be her first time. It startles you, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that it will be yours as well.

You part, and she whispers your name again, this time with more conviction. She is completely exposed, and her skin is lily-white and nearly flawless. You press your lips to her neck gently, and she gasps. Pulling back, you look at her one last time - Is she sure this is what she wants? - and she nods her assent. Soon enough, your clothes join hers on the floor. Almost immediately, her eyes journey to the tattoo on your chest. She raises her hand and traces the familiar shape with her finger. A ripple snakes down your spine. You sigh, and your hand finds itself between her legs. Again, her breath exits sharply, but it transforms into a throaty moan. You've never heard her voice like that before, and it urges you on. Your right hand explores between her thighs, and your left caresses her tenderly. She murmurs that she wants more, and you crawl closer, placing your legs on either side of her dainty hips. She spreads her legs, staring up at you, breath baited. You slowly press against her...

And something in you snaps. You feel a tug inside: a tug in the wrong direction. You know that this isn't right. You shouldn't be here. Not only would you be taking something from her that she can never recover for your own selfish reasons, but you'd be removing yourself from the place you want to be. A place that is not here, with her. Your face must have betrayed your inner turmoil, because hers lights up in epiphany, then softens in that way it always does when she understands something you don't. She lays her hands on your bare chest and pushes you lightly. You sit up and move away from her, bewildered.

"I knew you didn't want me," she whispers, not bitterly, but soberly, "You love Allen-kun, don't you? You have for a long time." Your eyes widen into saucers, and you shoot a look at her. She only laughs and waves it away.

"What makes you think I love that baka moyashi? He's a nuisance!" you snap back, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Well, you certainly don't love me, do you? It's okay. I won't tell..." she promises, though an impish grin quickly spreads on her kittenlike lips. "But you will. Right now. Tonight. Get dressed and go confess your feelings, Kanda Yuu." This time, you don't rebut her insistence. Instead, you do as she says, much to your own confusion. You look back at her, and she smiles, waving you on. You leave her there, and you know she must be upset beneath that smile of hers. But you press on, finding your way through the night-darkened halls, until you find the door to his room. It's ajar, which annoys you a little. Was he really that negligent? Nevertheless, you knock lightly. The door opens a little more, and you're soon met by his puzzled, groggy face. You realize - grudgingly - that it's cute, and you almost smile.

"Eh? Kanda? What are you doing here? And so late at night, too?" He stumbles over his words, which endears him to you just that much more. He stares at you, bleary-eyed and gape-mouthed and silent, waiting for an answer.

You cluck your tongue and mutter softly, "Baka moyashi..." Your lips brush against his forehead, against the pentacle that marks him cursed, and strands of soft, white hair cling to them. He is even more taken aback, and stammers out your name in broken syllables. You push hair away from his face and press your forehead against his. Your hands cup either side of his face, and your eyes close. Your next words come out in a bare, but fervent whisper: "Daisuki da yo, moyashi."

You move without thinking. Affection to you is like breathing, like thinking, like memory. Clenching your hand around his is as reflexive and familiar to you as brushing your hair from your eyes. The rush of adrenaline is pleasing; it makes you feel alive and alert, aware of everything around you. Being the lover you are, these things are second nature, and you fall in without question. Can anyone blame you? The waters of love can't help but carry you on its waves - the romantic pulsing beneath your skin, in your veins, would allow no different. You're a fighter, but you'd rather not acknowledge that part of you. You are The Lover. You and he are on the same level. You are of the same species.