Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1604720.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Aoyagi_Hajime/Teshima_Junta
  Character:
      Aoyagi_Hajime, Teshima_Junta
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Pining
  Series:
      Part 1 of Communication
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-25 Completed: 2014-05-26 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 2112
****** Apart ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Aoyagi doesn’t intend to do anything with the sweater. Really."
     Teshima forgets his sweater at Aoyagi's place. Aoyagi doesn't resist
     temptation. Neither does Teshima.
***** Imagination *****
Aoyagi doesn’t intend to do anything with the sweater. Really. He doesn’t even
realize it’s there until hours after Teshima has gone, when he’s straightening
his room and hanging up his clothes. It’s under his own jacket, so he doesn’t
see the tell-tale purple -- he doesn’t own anything that color -- until he
lifts the jacket to reveal it.
Of course the first thing he does is text Teshima -- ‘Sweater?’ -- and of
course Teshima responds instantly, ‘Oh yeah, I guess I forgot it. I’ll grab it
when I’m over there next!’ So there’s nothing to worry about, and Aoyagi folds
it and drapes it carefully over the back of a chair and doesn’t think anything
else about it for the rest of the night.
The problem starts the next morning, when he wakes up from another dream about
Teshima, more than half-hard and too sleepy to think about it rationally, and
his gaze lands on the purple. He lies still for a minute, just idly toying with
the idea of grabbing the sweater, burying his face in the collar and imagining
Teshima’s actually wearing it, breathing in the other boy’s scent, trying to
chase his dream back down with the advantage of a totem to call it back. But he
has to get up, and he has to go to school, so he goes to take a shower and
jerks off quick under the spray, shutting his eyes to picture Teshima like he
always does, the learned routine to make the day bearable.
He’s thinking about it all day, the thought clear enough on his face that
Teshima greets him with, “It’s fine, I’ve got other sweaters, don’t bother
bringing it in to school. I can just get it in a couple days.” Then Teshima’s
arm drops warm and affectionate around his shoulders, and Aoyagi shuts his eyes
for a moment and has a brief moment of intense gratitude that whatever else
Teshima can read off his face, the burn of desire for the other boy has thus
far remained unseen or at least uncommented upon. There’s no point in pushing
his luck, so he tries not to think about it actively, but when he looks at
Teshima’s shoulders he imagines soft purple draping over them, he can see the
way the collar would fall loose with familiarity around the other boy’s skin,
and all his half-thought sketches feature collarbones and jawlines that he
doesn’t let Teshima see because they’d be too clearly a mirror.
So he knows, by the time Teshima waves him off at the last few feet to his
house, that he’s going to take advantage of the opportunity. He has the house
to himself for a few hours; it’s a boon more than a necessity, but it does mean
that he can drop his bag and shed his school jacket as soon as he gets into his
room without hesitation. The tie is easy to work loose, the buttons of his
shirt so familiar he doesn’t need to think to open them, and by the time he’s
dropped the cloth to the floor he’s more than half-hard already. He grabs at
the sweater as he goes to the bed, stretches out on his stomach as he works the
fly of his pants open, and when he buries his face in the fabric and the smell
of Teshima hits him he whimpers involuntarily, a tiny half-caught moan into the
cloth against his lips.
Aoyagi has a good imagination. He can sketch most things from memory but
especially Teshima, has spent so long cataloguing every shift of the other
boy’s mouth and the creases around his eyes when he smiles and the curling wave
of his hair that Teshima’s face feels burned into his thoughts, that when he
shuts his eyes his mind immediately offers the other boy for his consideration.
Even so, the softness of the fabric against his cheek and the smell of Teshima
all around him flesh out the image, drag it forward almost into three
dimensions instead of just the two Aoyagi can manage alone. He doesn’t have to
think about the movement of his hand dragging over his length, the shift of his
thumb against himself or the tantalizing glide of his fingers when he tightens
his hold; in his head it’s not himself at all, it’s Teshima under him and not
just Teshima’s sweater, it’s the other boy’s hand dragging over him until he
can almost hear a phantom voice purring against his neck, “God, Aoyagi, how
long have you wanted this, you should have just asked,” and when he shakes his
head against Teshima’s shoulder he can almost feel Teshima laugh before saying,
“Yeah, I know, it’s okay.” When Teshima behind his eyelids increases his pace
the sensation picks up too, until even Aoyagi’s habitual quiet starts to
shatter apart, his breathing coming fast and too-hot into the fabric against
his skin. Almost-there lips press against his bare shoulder, imagined fingers
slide along his spine, and Aoyagi’s coming, groaning “Junta” loud enough that
even with his face pressed against the bed he’s glad no one else is home.
Teshima evaporates almost instantly, the nearly-there presence of Aoyagi’s
thoughts dissipating along with the heat under his skin until he’s left panting
into the other boy’s forgotten sweater, fingers and sheets sticky with come and
the chill of lonely want coming back to his awareness. Still. The sweater still
smells like Teshima, when Aoyagi closes his eyes he can still imagine the other
boy there, and even when his thoughts whisper you have to tell him someday he
can push them aside and let the quiet of imagination sweep over him for just
another minute.
***** Fantasy *****
There’s a reason Teshima doesn’t ask Aoyagi to bring his forgotten sweater to
school the day after he leaves it at the other boy’s house. There’s a reason he
deliberately leaves it over the back of the chair it’s draped over the second
time he comes over, the same reason he left it there in the first place, in
fact. By the time he does take it home, after over a week of the sweater
coexisting with Aoyagi in his room, Teshima is certain his plot will have paid
off.
He waits until he’s down the street and around the corner from Aoyagi’s house
before he stops to fish the sweater out of his bag, brings it to his face to
press his nose against the fabric and inhale. He can’t help the sigh of
satisfaction the escapes him as the elusive scent of Aoyagi hits him, a little
bit pencil lead and a little bit the artificial sweeteners of the sports drinks
he occasionally buys and mostly just Aoyagi, sweet and faint and impossibly
tempting, at least to Teshima. He was a little worried Aoyagi would have washed
it before giving it back, been so considerate as to undo all Teshima’s hopes,
but that doesn’t seem to be the case, or if it is the permeation of Aoyagi’s
presence is too strong to be overcome by simple detergent and fabric softener.
Teshima intended to stuff the sweater back into his shoulder bag before
finishing the walk home, but now that he has it in his arms he can’t face the
idea of putting it away even temporarily. Instead he slings his bag back up
over his shoulder and keeps the sweater in his arms, glad that it’s late enough
and dark enough that he won’t have many witnesses to how frequently he brings
the fabric to his face and inhales hard against it.
Teshima doesn’t have any delusions about his self-control once he gets home,
not after he couldn’t even put the thing away for the few blocks between
Aoyagi’s home and his own. He beelines for his bedroom, shuts the door and
drops his bag in front of the edge as a makeshift doorstop, and starts shedding
his school uniform as rapidly as he can one-handed without bothering to turn on
the light. It only takes a minute, even maintaining his relatively desperate
hold on his retrieved sweater, before he’s wiggling free of the last of his
clothing and can slide the purple fabric over his head. The fabric is soft
against his bare skin; he fits his arms into the sleeves, works his hands free
so he can reach up and tug his hair up and out of the collar. The sweater fits
just like it always has, of course, but it feels oddly heavy with import since
its stay with Aoyagi, and Teshima realizes that he is being absolutely
ridiculous but that doesn’t stop him turning his head to press his nose against
the shoulder and breathing in deep.
He doesn’t need to turn before lowering himself to his bed, dropping onto the
edge before falling backwards to sprawl diagonally over the sheets. By rights
his lack of clothing should be making him shiver, the air’s not that warm yet,
but he’s tingling with the flush of adrenaline instead, and when he pushes the
sweater up over his hip so he can reach down to brush his fingers over his
skin, he’s going hard even before he shuts his eyes and actually starts to
picture Aoyagi. The other boy’s dark eyes, the soft curve of his mouth, come
instantly to Teshima’s mind without him even calling them up, and the movement
of his fingers across his hip turn into Aoyagi’s in his mind even before he
comes across to actually wrap his hand around his length.
He whines at the contact, sounding more desperate than he intended, and Aoyagi-
in-his-mind blinks down at him, stops moving for a moment of concern. Teshima
shakes his head, whimpers “Aoyagi” and starts stroking himself. His fantasy
unwinds out over him, Aoyagi leaning over him, the other boy’s artist’s fingers
dragging over him with carefully inexperienced deliberation, his teeth catching
his lower lip the way he does when he focusing hard on a task. Teshima groans
at the thought, the image of the other boy’s lip creasing under the pressure
vivid from hyper-focused memories, and throws his free arm sideways over his
face so he can breathe in and imagine it’s actually Aoyagi he can almost taste
instead of just the other boy’s stolen scent. His fingers catch at the loose
collar of the sweater, fingernails drag over his collarbone and it’s Aoyagi in
his mind, exhaling with a faint sigh of shock at the prickle of electricity
that jumps between Teshima’s skin and the other boy’s fingertips.
“Aoyagi,” Teshima says again, the sound muffled by the fabric over his mouth,
and rocks up into the too-slow slide of his fingers over his length.
“Aoyagi, more, fuck,” and of course he speeds up but behind his eyelids it’s
Aoyagi responding to his plea instead of the predictability of his own actions.
There’s no trace of chill on his skin now, just flushing waves of heat as he
starts to rock his hips up against the pressure of his fingers -- of Aoyagi’s
fingers, as they are in the darkness of his blinded vision. Teshima’s starting
to tremble in anticipation, now, the shivery awareness of inevitability coming
for him, so even when he slows the slide of his hand to draw out the moment he
can feel the edge coming faster than he expected, rushing towards him until he
can almost see it in the darkness.
He drops his hand from his face for a moment to shove the bottom edge of the
sweater up high on his chest, out of the way; his breathing sounds loud without
the cover of his arm. Even when he brings his hand back up to cover his open
mouth he can hear his heartbeat thudding fast in his ears, the thrum of blood
through his veins until even his fantasy starts to melt away into just the
rising tide of pleasure.
“Aoyagi,” he says against his palm, eyes still shut against reality, “Aoyagi, I
love y--” and the wave hits him, washes out everything -- the pulse of his
heartbeat, the gasp of his breath, the shape of Aoyagi’s face in his mind -- so
for a brief moment there’s no fantasy and no loneliness and nothing but the
pleasure washing out into his veins, numbing everything into satisfaction for a
breath.
Then it fades away, leaving him shaky and sweaty and sticky on his bed in
nothing but his own sweater that still smells faintly of Aoyagi’s skin. Teshima
blinks up at the ceiling, his eyes readjusting to the darkness from the light
of his imagination.
“Fuck,” he says out loud. “I’m gonna have to tell him sometime.”
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