Saint Seiya 1. Sakura Biyori: Mu & Shaka

**Disclaimer:**I own no part of Saint Seiya, save for the awesome collection of figurines on my shelves that show my obssession. :) I merely borrow the characters for some fun.

**Author's Note:** For anyone who knows me and knows of my SS obsession, it should be noted that I am a huge fan of the Gold Saints. And I mean huge. I think I've rewatched Hades over a dozen times by now, and I cry each time I do. Given this, it should be of little surprise that I like to pretend fate wouldn't just let the Golds' stories end there, and so I have a little headcanon in which they all get resurrected. Though each story here will be considered a one-shot, they will all be based in this Resurrection-verse. Will they all take place post-resurrection? Eh...probably not, because I love a good dose of angst and drama, too. Anyone reading these should also be on the look out for yaoi (lots of it, though I have a few het-pairings I enjoy too), as well as reincarnation. Ratings will also fluctuate between stories, but I'll make sure everyone knows when that happens.

Hmm. I think that's enjoy chatter from me now. /bow. Please enjoy.

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**Sakura Biyori  
Pairing:** Mu/Shaka  
**Rating:** T

It looked as though pink snow had fallen over the fields. Extending as far as he could see in either direction was nothing but pink and white dotting the green grass, colors swirling through the air when caught by a gentle breeze. The delicate petals were removed easily from their groundings, torn free from branches to be sent spiraling off on their great journey.

One pink petal caught in lilac hair, blending with the soft purple strands and settling in as if resigning itself to the end of its travels – until lithe fingers reached up and dislodged it, sending it sweeping away with the next great gust. A smile touched the Gold Saint of Aries' lips as he watched it rejoin its floating brethren, soon becoming lost from view.

The sigh of cherry blossom blooms had always touched something inside of Mu – the pacifist Saint had enjoyed more than a few viewings over the course of his life. Not as many as he would have liked. Few things grew in Jamir, and so to see the trees would require a special trip out of the country, and those could only be made when it was safe. But this was a moment of respite that he intended to embrace, and with the situation in Sanctuary having calmed for the moment, he had decided to indulge himself in the tranquility of the sakura trees of Japan.

It hadn't been necessary for him to actually leave Sanctuary, of course; he knew he was welcome within Shaka's garden to see the blooms there. But it had been a long time since he'd viewed the trees in all their glory in their native land, and he had been seized by a sudden impulse that refused to let him go until he had made the journey. HakuYouKyuu had survived without him for thirteen years during his time in Jamir, and then again following his death in Elysium before his resurrection two years later. It would survive another few days of absence.

Another breeze passed by him, rippling the fabric of the kimono that he had donned. Though not his usual style of clothing, he'd decided to follow Japanese tradition and wear it. He certainly wasn't the only man wearing a kimono while viewing the cherry blossoms that day, and so he wouldn't be out of place. The lavender and blue garment fit his frame as though it were a second skin, his long hair tumbling down his back and restrained only by the leather tie that gathered it at the base.

Mu closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Here, in the countryside, away from the sounds and scents of the cities, Mu could practically _taste_ Spring. The scents of the flowers surrounded him, the peaceful chirping of birds in their nests, and there in the distance the sound of laughter from playing children somewhere beyond the reaches of his sight. And more than that, he could _feel_ Spring. The budding of new life, the near-perfect warmth of the sun's rays, the faintest hint of a possible rain shower to come. Spring was not simply a thought or theory. It was not formless – it was tangible, it was present, it _existed_. It was an entity in and of itself, and it was everywhere for anyone who cared to look.

Spring – _his_ Spring. More his than Aldebaran's, more his than Saga and Kanon's. Spring was _Mu's_ time; it was the Ram that oversaw its arrival, welcoming its coming and watching it grow into its full strength. Yes, Spring belonged to him, and it was at the start of the season that Mu felt himself the most at peace.

"I wonder how necessary it is, however, to come such a distance to find that peace."

Mu opened his eyes at the soft, philosophical tone that came from behind him. He didn't question how he'd been found, or how his thoughts were known. There was only _one_ person in all of Sanctuary – no, the world – who knew him that well. He turned to face the long-haired blonde man standing behind him.

Unlike Mu, who had opted for the traditional Japanese kimono despite his Tibetan roots, Shaka wore the monk's robes befitting his status. To look at him, one would never know that this man was supposed to be the current incarnation of Buddha himself, the man proclaimed to be the one closest to God. He looked more like he belonged on the cover of a magazine than sequestered away in a temple.

"Shaka," he said, nodding in acknowledgement of the Virgo Saint's arrival, trying not to show the surprise in his eyes at the other man's presence. "I wasn't expecting you to follow me here."

Shaka fixed his closed-eyed gaze upon him. "I thought we agreed that we wouldn't lie to each other, Mu."

The blunt statement made Mu shift slightly and look away, folding his arms across his chest as he turned his gaze back to the cherry blossoms. "I believe there is a difference between expectation and wishful thinking," he said quietly. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet-scented air before releasing.

"Then you do not deny that the entire reason you failed to alert anyone to your destination, or even to the fact that you would be leaving Sanctuary for a time, was in order to test me?" Anyone else might have been shocked to hear so many words coming out of Shaka's mouth, but Mu had had the honor of many a philosophical debate with the Virgo Saint and knew that beneath his silent visage was a man of high intelligence and gentle compassion. He was also a man who chose his words carefully and spoke only when he felt that speaking was needed – and even then, only to someone he truly believed would listen.

Hearing Mu's personal motives laid out naked in such a fashion made the Aries Saint burn with silent shame. "It's a harsh way of putting it," he admitted, "but in essence…yes."

The sound of cloth moving on cloth brought Mu's attention to Shaka coming to stand beside him, rather than behind. "It is refreshing to speak with someone who admits that he has shallow moments and does not apologize for them," Shaka said, his gaze directed now at the very cherry blossoms that Mu himself had been contemplating just moments earlier. "It has been a long time since I have left my Temple for personal reasons."

At that, Mu couldn't help but turn to look at his companion. "It's been a long time since you've done _anything_ for personal reasons, Shaka," he said, giving Shaka the same straightforward honesty that he was receiving. When the blonde didn't respond, Mu waited patiently.

Ever since their revival…no. Ever since the battle for Sanctuary, when five Saints had been left to pick up the pieces and rebuild after the deaths of their comrades, Mu had been waiting for Shaka. Always reserved, always alone, the two of them had formed a bond over their similar viewpoints and personalities when they had been children. When he'd returned to Sanctuary over ten years after his defection, he had been surprised to find that the soft-spoken, gentle if reserved boy he had bonded with over meditations had become a rigid, solemn man full enveloped in his own sense of spirituality. He had become detached from the world and humanity, living more as if he were observing them rather than living among them.

The Sanctuary war had left its survivors scarred, and Shaka had been no exception. It had taken months for Mu to draw the words out of the Virgo Saint, for Shaka to tell him of his encounter with Phoenix Ikki and the subsequent soul-searching that he had been forced to endure. For Shaka, the realization that he had come so close to killing his own humanity had been as much a slap in the face for him as the knowledge that his actions had nearly resulted in the death of Athena. And even a soul as strong as Shaka's had not been able to shoulder such heaviness alone.

For Mu, returning to Sanctuary had not meant just aiding the Bronze Saints in their battles and accepting his place as the Saint of Aries. It had been reaching out to the ones he had considered to be his brothers, to help them find their place after their worlds had been turned upside down. And having gone through his own crisis of faith, he had not been able to turn his back to the cracks he had seen within Shaka, reaching out to him.

And, to his surprise and relief, his old friend had accepted his hand.

Now, here they were, side by side amongst the cherry blossoms. Time, as always, had helped to heal the wounds, but Mu suspected that neither of them would have been able to come out of it completely intact if it weren't for the other. Mu had helped Shaka restore his faith in the world and finally accept the fact that he was, despite his strength and convictions, human. Shaka, in turn, had helped to soothe the guilt and regret that Mu had been carrying around ever since the death of his master and his self-imposed to Jamir.

They had gone from innocent children to strong warriors, from strong warriors to shattered men. But their cracks had healed, their foundations growing only stronger. They had sacrificed themselves for the good of the world and for the life of their goddess, and had their stories ended there they would have been content in their end.

Yet by the grace of their goddess they had been given a second chance, and Mu had made a vow upon opening his eyes once more that he would never again let himself fall into the shadows that he had hovered on the precipice of. He would embrace it all – his life, his duty, his convictions.

And his love.

"The world has come full circle," Shaka said, breaking the silence between them and echoing Mu's own thoughts. "The men we once were are now merely a part of us, rather than the entirety of our being."

Mu nodded quietly. "Yet how _much_ a part of us they still are differs from individual to individual," he replied. "Take, for example, Aiolia. He hasn't changed much from who he used to be, aside from a slightly more serious attitude and less of a habit of hot-headedly run into a situation without thinking it over. Quite a contrast to the other end of the spectrum, which I think can easily be awarded to Deathmask. His quest for justice still influences him, yet no longer rules him."

"The darker one's life, the more they have to face upon death," Shaka replied. "And the more questions one has to face about themselves."

Mu's shoulders tensed underneath his kimono.

"…How long would it take to expect answers to those questions?" His voice didn't sound as if it were coming from him. It sounded as if it were coming from some place further away – as if he were watching the conversation, rather than actively participating in it.

"That depends on how long it takes you to look at me."

Mu turned with a start, his heart jumping into his throat as he came face to face with a pair of sapphire eyes that seemed to stare straight through his physical body and right into his soul. Aphrodite might have been heralded as the most beautiful of Saints, but one look into Shaka's eyes and Mu felt as though his breath had been stolen from his lungs. There was no comparison.

And those eyes were looking at him now – gone was the normal aloof expression, replaced by warmth and gentleness. "You said that you came here in part to test me," Shaka said quietly. "Rather than come to my garden, you came here, to another country, to see if I would follow." His gaze held him, their even height making it easy to maintain contact – until Mu felt Shaka's hand on his, fingers sliding across his palm until they were entwined together. Mu looked down, staring numbly at their hands.

"Have I passed your test, Mu?" Shaka asked.

Mu swallowed hard, lifting his head once more just as another spring breeze came sailing by, bringing with it a fresh rush of petals that continued their intricate dance through the air. One of them caught in Shaka's hair this time, settling just above his ear, standing out against the golden locks.

Mu lifted his hand and reached for it, his fingers ghosting over Shaka's temple as he brushed the petal away. Then his hand lingered, caressing the silken strands now beneath it, as he drew the other man into his arms for the first time. There were no more words between them – there was no need. The universe had condensed down into a world that, for this moment in time, was simply the two of them. Mu. Shaka.

And the cherry blossoms.


	2. Rosa Danza: Deathmask & Aphrodite

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Saint Seiya, no matter how much I wish I could lock up the Saints and throw away the key...or keep it in my pocket...

**Author's Note:** My first attempt at writing this pairing, and I fear both characters may be a bit OOC...but the plot bunny bit and the muse wouldn't leave me alone, and I had to put the image in my head into words. These two make sure a beautiful (if insane) pair in my mind that I couldn't help myself.

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**Rosa Danza  
Pairing:** Deathmask/Aphrodite  
**Rating:** T

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_He loves me._

_He loves me not. _

_He loves me. _

_He loves…_

"What the hell are you doing?"

The blue-haired man jumped, the rose sliding out of his hands and fluttering to the ground in a shower of loose petals, some hitting the water of the reflecting pool and scattering. He stared down at the flower as it floated away, and a petulant scowl appeared. "How many times have I told you," Aphrodite of Pisces said with agitation, "not to sneak up on me like that?"

The Saint named for the Goddess of Beauty leaned back and tilted his head, his scowl melting into a full-scale pout as he stared up at the smirking face of the biggest thorn in his side – Deathmask of Cancer, who had the habit of waltzing into his Temple completely uninvited and then making himself at home on a whim.

"Watch yourself," Deathmask chuckled from above, utterly unfazed by the look he was being given. "Wouldn't want your face to freeze in that position, would you? Might ruin that perfect complexion you're so proud of."

The Cancer Saint, out of Cloth for once and wearing an ordinary tunic the same shade as his hair, along with a pair of tan pants to compliment the shade (Aphrodite approved), moved around the master of the Pisces Temple that he had essentially invaded and dropped himself down ungraciously next to him, dipping his fingers into the garden pool, swirling them around to create a mini whirlpool on the surface. A couple of koi came swimming up to investigate, visible in the crystal clear water.

The garden was something that Aphrodite was quite proud of – a long reflector pool that doubled as a koi pond, surrounded by a marble walkway lined with rose bushes. And not simply one kind of rose. No, every bush contained a unique and separate species, similar to its cousins and yet utterly different. There were the Alba, with their sweet scented blooms of white and pale pink. The Gallica, in shades of red, maroon, and even the deep purplish-crimson. The Damask roses, with their tangy fragrance, and their offspring the Centifolia. Then the Moss, the Portland, the China, the Tea, and still more - all different, all unique, all that Aphrodite could identify on sight and by name.

"Hey!"

Deathmask's rough exclamation drew Aphrodite's attention away from his roses and back to his uninvited guest – who was currently holding a bleeding finger and glaring at the koi with vengeance in his eyes.

Aphrodite gave an exasperated sigh. "I've told you before not to tease my fish," he lectured Deathmask. "They'll think you're trying to feed them, and they _will_ try to take a sample."

"Stupid fish," Deathmask growled, watching as a touch of blood welled up on the tan digit. "I don't see why you keep them. The only thing they're good for is being fried with a side of tartar."

"Hush, they'll hear you." Aphrodite reached out and seized Deathmask's wrist, inspecting the injured finger. "It's not that bad. Look – the bleeding has already stopped. You'll be fine."

He was suddenly acutely aware of the way that Deathmask was looking at him –like a wolf who had just located its prey, but wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Immediately he released the other Saint's hand and reached up to fix his hair. "What is it?" he asked. "Do I have something on my face?"

Deathmask pulled back his hand. "No," he replied. "It's just that that's the first time you've actually acted like you gave a damn about me. Usually you just act like I'm a nuisance when I drop by."

"You _are_ a nuisance," Aphrodite replied, a haughty tone in his voice. "It's only a small cut. Don't make such a big deal out of it – and you wouldn't have gotten it in the _first_ place if you had listened to what I said about my fish. Next thing you know, you'll be going and pricking yourself on one of my roses."

He unfolded his long legs and stood, the filmy white garment with a neckline wide enough to show off one alabaster shoulder – almost indecent in transparency and leaving nothing about his upper body to the imagination – hanging loose around him. No ordinary tunic for the most beautiful man in Sanctuary, no – Deathmask noted that today's outfit was belted around the waist with a pale blue sash, and the pants that Aphrodite wore were of the same shade. Surprisingly his feet were bare; usually he wore some form of slipper.

Even in haughty indignation, the Pisces Saint was a sight to behold.

"A little late for that warning," Deathmask joked in his usual cavalier attitude. "I've got little scars all over the place from the number of times I've been pricked by your thorns." He pushed himself to his feet, boots scraping along the marble.

Aphrodite gave a delicate snort, propping a hand on his hip as he looked over his shoulder at him. "I'm sure," he said, voice dry.

"What, you don't believe me?" And suddenly Deathmask was right _there_, closing the distance between them and heavily invading Aphrodite's personal space, causing his breath to hitch instinctively. He was close enough that Aphrodite could catch the spicy, earthy scent that was Deathmask and Deathmask alone, such a contrast to the roses that he couldn't help but notice it.

Likewise, he couldn't help but notice the way that Deathmask's tunic hugged the lines of his chest, the fabric pulled taught across muscles honed from years of high-intensity training, the neck of the tunic open enough that Aphrodite could make out the line of his collar bone, and just the barest hint of shadow from his pectorals.

"Want me to show you?"

"What?" Aphrodite blinked, tilting his head up slightly to look at the taller man. He realized he'd completely spaced out at Deathmask's sudden proximity.

He heard the smirk before he saw it. "My scars," Deathmask teased. "Do you want me to show you?"

Whether he was talking about metaphorical or physical scars, Aphrodite didn't know – he only knew that any thoughts traveling down the road of Deathmask showing him _anything_ involving his body in _whatever_ way was not a path that Aphrodite wanted to take. Automatically he took a step back, moving to turn away from him. "No," he said shortly. "Please, Deathmask – I have a lot of responsibilities to deal with today and entertaining you in your boredom is not one of them."

"Liar. You know as well as I do that Aquarius and Scorpio have today's patrol duty, and there's absolutely _nothing_ else pressing in Sanctuary that requires our level of attention. And Athena made it quite clear that she wants us to _enjoy_ our small reprieves whenever we may get them."

"Again, a task which does not involve _you_," Aphrodite retorted, taking a step to move past him.

Deathmask's hand snapped out and caught Aphrodite by the arm, strong enough to keep him from pulling away, not so strong as to leave a bruise. Deathmask knew the Pisces Saint well enough to know he would have ended up in the pool itself if he'd done such a thing. He stepped up behind him, and felt the muscles under his hand tense. Aphrodite stilled when he felt the warm breath next to his ear. "Talking with you is like a dance, Aphrodite," Deathmask said huskily. "For every step we take forward, we always seem to take two more back. A consistent rhythm to a tune only we two can hear."

Aphrodite felt his mouth go dry, and swallowed. "If that's your attempt at poetry," he said in a low voice, "then it's a bad one. Perhaps you should go to Camus and ask to visit his library in hopes of brushing up on your technique."

"My technique," Deathmask replied, trailing one finger down along the length Aphrodite's arm, "is the last thing that I need to brush up on."

"I wouldn't know." The blue-haired Swede closed his eyes. "Release me, Deathmask. I don't want to play this game with you."

"It's not a game," Deathmask replied, wrapping an arm around Aphrodite's slender waist, slowly turning him so that they were facing each other, their bodies only inches apart. "I told you. It's a dance, and every move we make is part of the choreography. I come here, you tell me to leave – one, two." He stepped to the side and drew the other with him. "We banter back and forth, following the beat. Three, four." Another step, and Aphrodite found himself feeling the rhythm of the Cancer Saint's movements, following along in circles. "And then you try to walk away. Sometimes I let you, and the dance ends. Other times I think I have a harder time letting go of such a _bello _partner."

They stopped abruptly, the slow steps they'd taken bringing them back to the edge of the pool they had started at, surrounded by roses on all sides. "Deathmask," Aphrodite tried again, but his protests sounded weaker.

"Admit it, _rosa,_" the Italian Saint practically purred, a predatory glint in his eyes. "If it were anyone else who had refused to leave at your command, you would have thrown them out yourself. I know very well how much strength there is in that lithe physique of yours. But it's different with me, isn't it? This dance that we share can never be replicated with anyone else. It never really ends, does it? It simply waits for the next set of steps to begin."

Aphrodite was visibly shaken as he lifted his eyes once more to meet Deathmask's. "…what are you doing to me?" he asked breathlessly. He was used to being worshipped, used to being awed – from the time he was a child, his beauty and grace had always been highly praised. He was used to leading. He was not used to being led.

Deathmask grinned, the gleam in his eyes turning positively wicked. "I'd that much was obvious," he said. "I'm seducing you, Aphrodite of Pisces." He hooked his fingers into the sash around Aphrodite's waist and tugged, closing the distance between their bodies in one fluid motion – another step of their endless dance.

A petal fell from the forgotten rose.


	3. Fire and Ice: Camus & Milo MATURE

**Disclaimer:** Saint Seiya doesn't belong to me. If it did, you can rest assured that these scenes wouldn't just be writings on a fanfiction website.

**Author's Notes:** :D Thanks to everyone who's given me reviews for the first two chapters. In particular to Shinigami, who requested that I do some Camus/Milo. As it so happens, I received that review right after finishing up a Camus/Milo chapter, which just finished being beta'd, so...here it is! As for the other requests for Lost Canvas Saints, I do love them just as much, so rest assurred they shall be coming.

That said, I'm giving some forwarning that with this chapter, the rating official hikes up to **M.** Because I'm statistically incapable of keeping my mind out of the gutter when I'm playing with Aquarius and Scorpio. Also, I apologize to French speakers if any French in this chapter got butchered - I don't actually speak French, and I used Google Translate.

Please enjoy!

**Update 7/13/2012 - **Big thanks to Vyscaria for taking pity upon me and correcting my horrible Google'd French! And also thanks again for your wonderful review - it completely made my day.

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**Fire and Ice  
Pairing: Camus/Milo**

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There are those who would say that he had a heart of ice. That he reached out to no one, relied only on himself, and purposefully remained separated from others. There are those who would say that he held himself above the rest, never deigning to speak to those considered beneath him. He was called cold, he was called heartless, he was called emotionless.

He was none of those things, and Scorpio Milo knew that better than anyone.

He was not cold; Milo knew this from the heat that emanated from his body as he ran his fingers over smooth muscle, one delicately sharpened fingernail tracing outlines over the ridges of his abdomen. There were times, in fact, when Milo was certain he would burn just from the stroke of his fingers, from the warmth of his mouth as they sought him out.

He was not heartless; the whispered words that he breathed into Milo's ear as they held each other tight were all the proof the Scorpio needed of that. No one could be heartless and still_ care_ as much as he did. True, he was selective about those he let in close to him – and Milo was one of the fortunate few who had seen beyond all of those guarded layers to the soul that lay beneath.

And he was most certainly _not_ emotionless; all Milo needed to do was look into his eyes as they made love to confirm this. The way his cheeks flushed and the occasional tear gathered in the corner of his eye (something Milo and Milo alone had seen, which gave him a certain perverse thrill), the soft cries that escaped from his throat as he struggled to be quiet despite the fact that no one could possibly hear them outside the temple walls. The way he would bite his lip, which Milo found to be adorable despite the other's vehement insistence to the contrary, and the way his entire body would react to every soft caress and rough stroke.

No, Aquarius Camus was _not_ cold, _not_ heartless, _not_ emotionless. He loved…loved so much that he was willing to sacrifice his very life to give a boy he considered to be both a brother and a son the power to withstand the trials ahead, even knowing that to do this, to push him to the edge, would require using an act of cruelty that would almost as surely break the Cygnus Saint's heart before healing it.

Milo tightened his arms around Camus, closing his eyes and pressing his face into the aqua-green hair of his lover.

"Milo?" Camus' soft murmur came from beneath him, a strong, slender hand reaching up and threading its way into his tangled violet mane. "What is it?"

Milo hadn't realized that his shoulders had started to shake from suppressed tears. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been on the verge of them. He dug his fingers into Camus' arms, drawing in a deep breath and trying to get his breathing under control.

"Milo." The Aquarius Saint's voice was firmer this time, more commanding and authoritative in tone. The Scorpio Saint pulled back slightly, staring down at his lover with flushed cheeks. Camus brushed his knuckles against Milo's cheek, and the heat on his face only grew when he realized that he'd hadn't managed to restrain all of the tears. "Tell me."

Milo swallowed hard. He was the brazen one, the loud-mouthed Saint whose mouth moved faster than his brain. He was not one to be overtaken by his emotions, but the sight of the beautiful man lying beneath him, shameless in his nudity and tender in his expression, proved to be his undoing. Milo joked in bed often that he was the stronger of the two – but when it came to pure heart and strength of soul, it was _Camus_ who was superior in every instance.

"I thought I'd lost you," Milo whispered. "You walked out of my temple, and then you were gone. I thought I would never see you again. And then you returned as one of Hades… my enemy." He closed his eyes. He had never admitted to _anyone_ how much his heart had broken that day. Seeing Camus wearing the armor of the Specters, seeking the death of their goddess, had been more than he could handle. He'd taken his aggression and pain out on Kanon, gratefully coming to his senses in time to realize that the Gemini twin did not deserve the wrath of his Antares.

"I was never your enemy, Milo," Camus murmured, placing his palm against Milo's cheek.

"How was I supposed to know that?" Milo choked out, releasing Camus' arm and grasping his hand tight, holding it against his face as if not doing so would mean losing the touch forever. "When Athena died, all I saw was red. I had lost you. I had lost my goddess. I couldn't…couldn't…" He could remember the way that Camus' neck had felt under his hands. He could remember how easy it would have been to tighten his grip until the delicate bones snapped, that most vulnerable point in any warrior.

And he remembered the way that Camus had looked at him, had _seen_ him despite being unable to see anything, the tears shimmering within his blinded eyes.

Cool fingers brushed along the curve of Milo's cheek; the Scorpio Saint opened his eyes and stared down at his lover. The gaze that Camus focused on him was one of unexpected warmth, and it made Milo's throat tighten just looking at him. He swallowed hard, willing himself to regain a sense of calm, to ignore the burning sensation that was growing in the corners of his eyes.

"Forgive me," Camus murmured. "I never wanted to cause you this pain. Not before…not after. I'm a selfish man, Milo. I always look towards my interests and intentions before yours."

A shudder moved through Milo, and he shook his head, violet tresses flying around his shoulders. "_No_," he said forcefully, releasing Camus' hand suddenly and striking the pillow next to his lover's head with his fist. "No, it wasn't…it's not _you_, Camus!" Fire blazed in his eyes as he held himself over the other Saint, his expression fierce. "It's me. It's _me_, because even though I _knew_ you had to put Hyoga first I couldn't get past my jealousy and accept it. It's _me_, because I didn't _trust_ you enough to know that you would never surrender yourself to Hades. It's me because even though you're in my arms now I can't forgive you for _leaving me!_" The words flooded from his mouth before he could stop them, his breath catching hard in his throat as he stared at his lover, realization of what he had just said flashing over his features.

Camus' eyes had gone unreadable, the blue-green orbs shuttering once more. Milo felt his stomach twist. _Idiot!_ he mentally raged at himself. _Why did you go and say that? Why did you go that _far? Because he'd never learned when to keep his mouth shut. He was the one known most for shooting off his mouth without thinking; hell, even Deathmask and Aioria knew when to stop. Not him. Never him. The moment he got a thought into his head it had to find its way out of his mouth, and it had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion.

And now it had happened again, at the _worst_ possible moment.

Camus shifted beneath Milo, sliding his hand from the other Saint's cheek down the length of his neck to the muscled shoulder it connected to. Milo felt his throat tight as he waited for Camus to speak, to say something, anything. He hated it when his lover closed off like this, because Milo could _never_ tell what he was thinking. He wasn't perceptive like Mu and Shaka were. He could only rely at what he saw in front of him.

Camus' grip on his shoulder tightened suddenly, and without warning Milo found his world spinning, found himself unexpectedly on his back and staring up at the other man in shock, their legs tangled together from Camus' sudden flipping of positions. His eyes widened as he realized the other man had his wrists pinned above his head with one hand. "Camus—?"

Icy fingers touched his lips, cutting off any other words. "Silence," Camus said, midnight blue eyes alit with intensity. "You won't speak. You'll listen."

He drew back his fingers a moment later, trailing them down Milo's neck, dipping into the hollow of his throat before coming to rest on the center of his chest. "I do not want to repeat myself any longer," Camus said, his voice low and hypnotizing, the sound of it combined with his touch causing Milo's eyes to grow slightly unfocused; or rather, focused on something other than the rampant thoughts tearing through his head.

"I do not hold you responsible for any of what happened, Milo. Nor do I have any desire to watch _you_ put the weight of _my_ actions on your shoulders. What's done is done. We cannot live in the shadows of the past, Milo; not when we were fortunate enough to be granted this second chance." Camus leaned forward, his long hair draping over his shoulders and brushing against the bare skin of the other man's chest. "Athena gave us this second chance so that we might _live_."

And then his mouth was on Milo's, his free hand gripping the other Saint's wrists as their upper bodies were pressed flush together. A shudder rippled through Milo, his lips parting in a groan that was swiftly cut off by Camus' tongue. Milo instinctively struggled against the grip Camus had on him, his instincts compelling him to hold on to his lover but circumstances preventing him from doing so. Camus broke the kiss at his first struggles and gave him a quick shake of his head - this time the control was in _Camus'_ hands, not Milo's.

Heat built up in Milo's lower abdomen, and he could feel the fire within him rising steadily in response, rekindling the arousal that had flagged during their momentary distraction. Caught up in a haze of desire and the uncharacteristic feel of having no control over the situation, he watched as Camus straightened up, straddling his hips and looking down at him with a piercing gaze.

Milo had the sudden, aching desire to touch the other man, and he tried again to break the restraint on his wrists only to have Camus give them a hard squeeze and a warning look not unlike those the more serious-minded man had given him when they were children. Milo answered with a cocky grin and, unable to help himself, a roll of his hips to remind Camus of the effect he was having on him.

He heard Camus' breath hitched, saw his eyes close briefly as his responded in kind, for a moment granting Milo a teasing taste of blissful friction between their bodies. It was these moments when Camus began to let go of his hard-held control that Milo loved the most, particularly knowing that _he_ was the one – the only one – to bring them about.

He grinned wickedly and prepared to repeat the motion, but Camus was ready for him. His eyes snapped open and his eyes were focused again. With his free hand the Aquarius Saint reached behind him and pushed firmly down on Milo's hips, getting them well in place with a warning look to the man beneath him.

Before Milo could figure out how to break Camus' hold on him and regain the upper hand – if he even _wanted _to; he had to admit he was rather intrigued by this change in roles between them – Camus shifted a top him, rising up on his knees and pulling his hand away from Milo's hip. Milo opened his mouth to protest the loss of Camus' weight on him, only to have the words die in his throat as Camus reached back and closed his hand around Milo's arousal.

The icy chill of Camus' hand contrasted sharply with Milo's heated flesh, causing the other Saint to gasp and arch his back in response. As Camus' hand began to move, stroking in slow, lethargic movements, a soft hiss escaped from between Milo's teeth. His hips jerked in impatience, the last traces of his earlier dark mood vanishing under the careful application of Camus' touch. When Camus brushed his thumb over the tip, Milo groaned and let his head fall back, unable to do anything but enjoy the sensations.

Camus released Milo's wrists, but the Scorpio Saint was so intent on enjoying his lover's touch that he merely kept them where they remained. With each down stroke of his hand Camus would adjust the temperature of his touch, his palm sometimes as warm as flesh, others as if it were encased in ice. Milo's breathing grew heavy and ragged; he felt Camus' weight above him shift but kept his eyes closed.

"_Gods!_" Milo's eyes snapped back open a moment later as he felt that weight settle on him once again, and then more – the unparalleled sensation of Camus lowering his body onto him slowly, the tightness of him wrapping around Milo and enveloping him in unexpected heat. For one impossibly long moment Milo's senses were completely focused on that sudden connection as their bodies became one, as Camus simultaneously took Milo and gave of himself to his lover.

Gods and Goddesses, how he had _missed_ this!

Camus lowered himself until he had taken Milo in fully, his hands pressing on Milo's chest for balance. Milo pushed himself up onto his arms, taking care not to unbalance the other man, his darkened eyes gazing at his lover as he struggled to steady the beating of his own heart.

The sight he found before him nearly took his breath away.

Camus' cheeks were flushed, his teal hair hanging down in waves around his body, the long strands spilling over his shoulders and down his back like a waterfall. He wasn't looking at Milo; he wasn't looking at anything, his eyes closed as he fought to take several deep breaths and allow his body to adjust. He held himself so still that the slightest shift made his muscles quiver – but there was no question as to how Camus felt about this. His own body left nothing to the imagination in regards to his desire.

Milo reached up, sweeping a hand into those flowing locks before resting it against Camus' cheek. His thumb caressing the slope of his cheekbone; his fingers curled to rest just behind his ear. The light touch sent a visible shiver through Camus, and Milo couldn't stop himself from groaning softly.

"Camus," he breathed, a slight rumble of a purr in his voice, "do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

Camus' blush deepened, and he opened his eyes to meet Milo's. "I think I can make a good guess," he whispered. And with his palms flat against Milo's chest he began to move, slowly lifting himself up and then down in a deep stroke of fulfillment.

Milo's last thread of self-control unraveled. He pushed himself up, grasping at Camus' hips and surging his own upwards to meet him as he came down on the next stroke. Camus gasped, nails gouging into Milo's stomach, raking thin trails of red across tan skin as he lost part of the control that he had claimed for himself.

And then Milo saw it; a spark in Camus' eyes from behind his normally glacial gaze, that first true sign of thawing that he was addicted to. Milo leaned in swiftly, capturing those perfect lips in a searing kiss. He felt Camus' hands come up to grasp at his shoulders as their bodies came together, each moving in perfect tandem with the other as they slid easily into their rhythm. Breathing became secondary; all that mattered to Milo was Camus.

Thought and reason banished themselves from Milo's mind as he drowned himself in the feel of Camus' body. He watched with surging confidence as the other man's eyes closed, lips parting with shallow breaths, cheeks flushed with heat and desire. Camus' head feel back, that long teal hair spilling down his back and swaying teasingly with each thrust. Milo pressed his face against Camus' neck, simultaneously breathing in his scent and biting down on the silken flesh as he adjusted their position instinctively, taking his lover harder and deeper with each new stroke.

He could feel Camus' nails digging hard into his skin and knew that they would leave marks, and he didn't care. He wanted Camus to mark him; _he_ wanted to mark Camus, to let the world know just who this man belonged to. Their loyalty and their lives might be Athena's, but their hearts were their own to give.

Milo was close, so close now, the tightness and heat of his lover's body overwhelming him. The way that Camus' hands clutched at him, then smoothed over and wrapped around his shoulders to holding onto him tight, adjusting the angle at which they met each other's thrusts, was threatening to drive him over the edge.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes burning with desire. "_Not yet_," he hissed into Camus' ear, and didn't know if he was speaking to his lover or to himself.

Camus drew in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, and lowered his forehead to Milo's shoulder. "Milo," he pleaded, "_please_."

Such a simple word, and yet it proved to be Milo's undoing. With a surge of strength their position changed, Camus on his back below Milo with hair splayed out beneath him like water, Milo holding his legs as he pounded furiously into his lover, the new position and angle permitted even deeper strokes that made Camus' back arch and his nails bite deep into tanned flesh. Panting harshly, Milo released one leg – dimly he felt it wrap around his hip – and reached between them to grasp at Camus' untouched arousal.

Camus' cry echoed in Milo's ears as his body tensed and arched, and Milo could no longer hold himself back. Together they crested, their twin waves of passion crashing over them in a mix of pure bliss. Milo could feel their very cosmo blending together, could feel Camus welcoming him and giving himself over all in the same breath. Who sought who's lips first was unknown; all Milo cared about was the taste and feel of Camus as they clung to each other breathlessly.

When at last the intensity had abated and their cosmo retreated, their combined heartbeats slowing to a more normal pace, Milo withdrew from Camus and let himself collapse unceremoniously next to his lover. He turned his head and found Camus lying still next to him, eyes closed as his chest rose and fell slowly with each breath. _Like a statue…an ice statue,_ Milo thought, a smile playing upon his lips. Rolling onto his side, Milo reached out and laid his hand upon Camus' chest. Already the realm of dreams was tugging at his mind, and he let himself give into the lethargy of the moment, eyes sliding shut.

He felt a firm hand cover his own, felt his hand being lifted to cool lips, and as he drifted off into sleep he thought he heard a soft voice whisper to him.

"_Tu es le feu à ma glace. Je ne te quitterai jamais."_


	4. Vows: Cancer & Pisces

**Author's Notes:** Been awhile since I added anything to this collection, but this popped into my head while I was at work awhile back and wouldn't go away, so I just had to give it life and form. It's a bit of a different kind of second chance, but I think it fits the qualifications for this collection. I think it's also more in character than #2 Rosa Dansa - I've gotten more used to writing these guys.

As always, this piece was beta'd by the great Teakwood.

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

**Vows**  
**Pairing:** Cancer/Pisces**  
Rating: **T

***.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.***

Cold. Not the cold of a winter's day of the chill of the night, but the cold of loneliness, of the sense of loss and abandonment. While the sounds of life could be heard outside the temple walls, once he passed through the stone archway all that greeted him was silent darkness.

His armored footsteps echoed off the stone floors, each step cacophonous in the grand emptiness that lay out before him. Each step further in reminded him of the one person who would never again walk through the grand temple, and his fists reflexively clenched as a surge of anger shot through him.

He hadn't been fast enough. He hadn't made it in time.

Ridiculous thought. Logically he knew that by the time he'd heard the news, it had already been too late. Even if he'd set out at the instant, unless he'd possessed the power to turn back time there was still nothing that he could have done. He could control the spirits of the dead on a whim, but he was not Kronos; he could not command time.

He shouldn't have left. He should have been there.

Yet how could he have _known_? The attack had come without warning, Sanctuary caught off guard by the sudden swiftness of it all, most of her protectors outside of its boundaries. They hadn't known that Hades would make his move on _that _day, in _that_ way. And he hadn't been away on a foolish whim; he'd been following the orders of his Pope and Master, fulfilling his necessary duty as befitting of a Saint of his station.

Duty. The word rang hollow. What good was fulfilling your _duty_, if it was at the cost of a life?

He was angry, he realized; lost in his thoughts his steps had picked up pace, the sound of them now a sharp staccato as he approached the closed doors of the adyton located at the far end of the temple naos. It wasn't rational– when was it ever – and yet the anger was there all the same.

Anger at Shion, for being there, for trying to do what he himself could not have done, and for not being able to _stop_ it.

Anger at the village, which had always, _always_ meant more to him than a village ought to mean to any one person. .

Anger at _him, _for singlehandedly placing the responsibility of Sanctuary's defense on his shoulders.

And. All. For. _Nothing._

The attack had never been about Sanctuary. It had been about pressing home the futility of their situation and showing Athena that no matter how many of her Saints stood in the way, they would only fall, never to get up again. Or, if they did, it would not be in defense of the Goddess that they had given their lives to protect.

He placed his hands on the adyton doors and stopped, closing his eyes and bowing his head. _That_ was what he was angry at. Not Shion, not the village, not even _him_. He was angry at the situation, and the incredible unfairness of it all.

He took a deep breath, and then pushed.

The heavy doors parted before him like some grand, stone curtain, and he stepped the cold, dark inner chamber. An opening in the ceiling provided the only source of light, a small circular spotlight that lit up the stone altar in the center of the room, and the silent and still figure that lay not upon it.

Too silent. Too still. As he approached the altar, his steps slower now, quieter so as not to disturb the peace of the sanctuary, he felt the anger within him gradually diminish. It was replaced by a tightness in his chest that he could not bring himself to name, for naming it would be to give it form and truth. It would make it, all of this, _real_.

And yet… as he came to stand beside the altar, it already _was_.

He lay not upon a cold marble surface but a blanket of rose petals, a last tribute from the flower that had followed him from birth to death. His hair spread out beneath him in a fan, a blanket of powder blue silk around and over his shoulders. His eyes were closed, soft cerulean existing now only in memory. His Cloth was gone now, returned to its dormant form, and his body now lay shrouded in funeral white that only served to emphasize the paleness of his alabaster skin. And his expression; it was a breathtaking sight, with such peace and serenity that it was hard to believe that he wasn't simply sleeping.

_But you're not there anymore, are you?_ He reached out, bringing calloused fingers towards one smooth cheek, hesitating only briefly before slowly running them down along the curve of a jaw. The skin beneath his fingertips was smooth, just as he'd imagined it would be, yet the warmth of life was nowhere to be found. What lay before him now was nothing more than a shell, the soul having already moved on.

How ironic that what he had longed to do in life could only now be accomplished through death.

"I didn't think you would go first," he whispered, a fingertip brushing against the delicate beauty mark just beneath one closed eye. "I'm the one with the death wish; I always figured it'd be _me_ waiting on the other side for _you_. But you just had to go and prove me wrong, didn't you?"

Slowly he leaned down, bracing himself with one hand on the stone altar, and brought their lips together; a feather light touch that he had dreamed of for years, a gesture of the heart that had always remained out of his reach. Together yet apart; this had been the mantra of their lives, ever since that day he had first laid eyes upon the eight-year-old Pisces apprentice.

He straightened up and took a step back; a single rose petal remained caught between index and middle finger. "Your death will not be in vain," he said quietly. "Even if it takes mine to make it so."

His cape swirled behind him as he turned, the sunlight catching reflecting briefly off the gold of his Cloth. There was no reason to stay any longer; the soul he was searching for wasn't here anymore.

But one day - yes, one day, even if it was in another lifetime, even if he had to go to the Underworld and back to do it, he _would_ find him again.

_I swear I will._

**_*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*_**

He sat suddenly upright, staring into empty darkness, his bare chest rising and falling rapidly with his startling breathing. For a moment he felt confused, uncertain of his surroundings, of where and _when_ he was. He expected cold stone and the distant sound of rushing water; instead he felt warm, soft satin sheets and the comforting whisper of air thick with spirits against his skin. He clenched his fist, twisting the thick bedspread in his grasp, and breathed in deep – he was not in the adyton of the Pisces Temple, but rather in his private apartment in the lower level of Cancer.

And he was awake, not trapped in the memories of a Saint long-dead. Memories that still clung to his mind and felt all too real.

The mattress dipped and shifted as the weight upon it was redistributed, and a pair of lithely muscled arms embraced him from behind, one hand clasping the opposite shoulder and the other resting against his lower stomach, just above where the sheets pooled around his waist. Alabaster skin stood out in stark contrast against dusky tan, and a length of powder-blue hair fell over his shoulder as soft lips caressed the side of his neck.

"Was it a nightmare, _min __älskling?_" the soft tenor voice murmured, with just a touch of resignation born of too many nights where this had been true, though admittance of such had never gone beyond these walls.

He grasped the arm draped around his shoulders, firmly gripping the supply muscled forearm. Silently he pulled the arm away, shifting his hold to his lover's wrist, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his palm.

Then he tightened his grip and twisted around, swiftly pushing the other back onto the matress, one arm pinned above his lover's head and the other to his side. He stared into a sea of cerulean that reflected mirrored his own desire, at the delicate mark beneath one eye. For a moment he was back in his dream – but this was different. Those eyes were open now; the body beneath him was warm, pliant, and responding. He lowered his head, mouth hovering just centimeters above lips parted in breathless anticipation, and whispered his reply before finally closing the last distance between them.

"Not anymore."


End file.

Saint Seiya, Drama, Romance