Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11668257.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shoujo_Kakumei_Utena_|_Revolutionary_Girl_Utena
  Relationship:
      Kiryuu_Touga/Saionji_Kyouichi
  Character:
      Kiryuu_Touga, Saionji_Kyouichi, Ohtori_Akio, Tenjou_Utena
  Additional Tags:
      Childhood_Friends, Childhood_Memories, Inline_with_canon, Dubious
      Consent, Angst, Jealousy, Sexual_Coercion, Voyeurism, Bad_Sex, Topping
      from_the_Bottom, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Developing_Relationship,
      Communication
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-10 Completed: 2017-08-31 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 7054
****** Not a Friend ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "No, he wants to say. Not her. But Touga doesn’t turn around, and
     Kyouichi doesn’t speak, and at his side his hand starts to throb with
     pain." Kyouichi and Touga are not friends.
***** Causing Accidents *****
Kyouichi can feel the raindrops running cold against the back of his neck.
His hair is soaked through. The waves are curling in on themselves, going to
ringlets with the weight of the humidity so thick in the air he can taste it
with every breath he takes, as if he might be inhaling water to fill his lungs
instead of oxygen. It was wet before, he knows, he’s been damp ever since the
dark curtain of grey over the sky unfolded into the downpour that has been
drenching through his clothes for the last hour.
It was easier to ignore, before.
 
“It can’t be helped,” Touga says, almost laughing the words as his hand presses
against Kyouichi’s shoulder, as his fingers fit against the curve of the
other’s neck. “You’re the only one I know who’ll let me practice on them.”
Kyouichi’s fingers curl against Touga’s shirtfront, his grip tightens against
the give of fabric under his bandaged hand. “I guess,” he says, and shuts his
eyes against the splash of the rain as he turns his head back up towards the
other.
 
Touga isn’t looking at him, now. Touga is turned away, his body next to
Kyouichi’s but his gaze elsewhere, his attention fixed back on the shadowy
shape of the church they only just broke free from, as if the shadows weighting
over them are something that can be so easily shaken. Kyouichi watches him
through the weight of his lashes, feeling the water trickle cold down the back
of his neck and under the collar of his shirt, feeling his shoulders hunch in
closer as if to protect what fragment of living warmth he can yet claim for
himself. His bruised hand aches dully, like it’s responding to the chill in the
air as surely as his hair is curling to the wet. Touga’s hair isn’t curling;
Touga’s hair is perfect even as it darkens with the splash of the water falling
over them, it lies in a smooth sheet across his shoulders as if it was meant to
be seen like this. The color sets off the pale of his skin, the dark of his
eyes; it’s the color of roses, a darker variation of that princess-pink lying
in the shadows of the church in front of them.
Kyouichi turns his head down and brings his arm up to dig his grip against the
bruise against the back of his hand until he can feel the ache down the whole
of his spine.
 
“I won’t tell anyone.” A gentle tone, a sweet kindness, a care Kyouichi has
never heard from Touga before. Graceful fingers slide unhesitating into the
shadows of the coffin, drawing up to let rose-pink hair slip through their
grasp. The strands are fine, silk-smooth across Touga’s palm; softer than the
weight of a bamboo handle, more delicate than the rough wrapping on the hilt of
the shinai Kyouichi left alongside the bicycle behind them.
“I’m an ally to all girls,” Touga says, without looking away from the texture
of the hair spilling across his palm, the shine of color soft as the rose
petals beneath it. His expression is soft, his gaze rapt. “I’m chivalrous,
after all.”
Touga doesn’t look up to see the way Kyouichi ducks his head to see the shadows
instead of that look on the other’s face.
 
“Incredible,” Touga says, his voice distant as his gaze, far-off and as out of
reach as the rain-hidden sunlight. “I’ve never seen something so amazing.”
Kyouichi doesn’t lift his head. He can see the trailing ends of his hair
against his shoulder, the curling dark of the strands dragging themselves free
of their tie like they have a will of their own. He lets his hand go, brings
his fingers up to pull at the loop of elastic holding his ponytail in place
instead; his hair spills loose over his shoulders as he shakes it free, as he
lets it run wild once loose of its constraints.
“We should have quit sooner,” he says to the white of the bandage around his
hand.
 
“Wait!” Kyouichi is stumbling, almost falling, not sure if he’s running from
the coffins behind him or towards Touga before him, striding away down the
center of the church aisle without hesitation, without even looking back at
Kyouichi behind him. Kyouichi’s heart is pounding in his chest, his throat is
closing up on too much emotion for him to make sense of; it’s hard to catch his
breath but he doesn’t dare stop, doesn’t dare risk being left alone here in the
dark with that girl and her beautiful hair and her frightening words. He
reaches for rationality, struggles for the reasonable response to this
situation. “We can’t just let that girl do this crazy thing!”
Touga stops, then, pausing in the doorway of the church as he didn’t for
Kyouichi’s pleas, as he didn’t for any of the desperate shouts Kyouichi has
been giving to him. He’s framed in the doorway, the church so dark that even
the dim illumination of the storm outside is enough to cast him into a
silhouette. Kyouichi can see the color of his hair, can see the line of his
shoulders.
Touga doesn’t turn around to look at him. “Then show her something eternal.”
 
“It’s getting late,” Touga says from alongside Kyouichi.
Kyouichi doesn’t look up from his hand. “Yes.”
“I’ll need to have you home soon.” Touga reaches out, his hand touches against
Kyouichi’s waist; the weight of his arm across the other’s back sticks
Kyouichi’s damp shirt close against his rain-wet skin. “We don’t have time for
much more.”
Kyouichi lifts his head to look at the other. Touga is turned towards him, his
eyes on Kyouichi’s face and a smile framed against his lips; but there’s no
recognition behind his gaze, no real attention as he looks at the other boy
next to him. His glance down at Kyouichi’s mouth is cursory, locating a target
instead of demonstrating any real interest; when he lifts his other hand and
reaches up it’s to push carelessly at the weight of the other’s hair, to shove
it back and over Kyouichi’s shoulder without particular consideration for the
curling tangle of the damp weight. He closes his eyes as he comes in, his mouth
softens into the curve of expectation; and Kyouichi shuts his eyes, and parts
his lips, and tries to let the heat of Touga’s mouth on his distract from the
aching emptiness that’s filling his chest. But there’s no magic, now, there’s
none of the electricity that kept them so late even as the rain dripped through
the branches of the tree overhead to splash against their overwarm skin; now
Kyouichi can feel his shirt sticking against the back of his neck, and the pull
of his hair weighting against his shoulders, and the huff of Touga’s breathing
slower and calmer than his own against his cheek. Touga’s mouth feels cold, his
lips awkward and his hand clumsy; and then his fingers catch against a knot in
Kyouichi’s hair, his movement tugs painfully against the other’s scalp, and
Kyouichi jerks away, pulling backwards and off of Touga’s mouth with so much
force he almost falls before he can throw out his hand to catch himself. It’s
the bruised one, the one aching with the impact of Touga’s careless strike
earlier in the day; Kyouichi can feel the ache of the impact run up the whole
of his arm.
Touga blinks vaguely at Kyouichi. “Sorry,” he says. “Did I pull your hair?” His
gaze slides to Kyouichi’s hair, skims over the loose fall of it with cursory
speed. “You should really tie it up if it’s going to get wet like this.”
Kyouichi’s fingers tighten against the hair tie in his hand, the elastic he’s
been wearing all day and only just took the time to remove. “I’m going home,”
he says, and pushes to his feet at once, without waiting for Touga to
relinquish his hold on him. Touga blinks, his head tipping up to follow
Kyouichi’s movement, but Kyouichi doesn’t look at him; he turns away and moves
to stride up the hill towards the road, where the smooth gravel is turning to
black with the joint effect of the rain and falling night.
“I can bike you there,” Touga says from behind him, sounding more confused than
upset.
Kyouichi jerks his head into rejection. “I’d rather walk,” he says, and steps
out onto the gravel so he can turn and start pacing over the miles left between
himself and home.
He doesn’t look back to see if Touga’s watching him leave. He knows who Touga
is looking at without having to see it for himself.
 
“Then show her something eternal.”
Kyouichi stares at Touga’s back, at the crimson spill of his hair over his
shoulders, at the elegant grace of his stance and the open curl of his
hands. No, he wants to say. Not her. But Touga doesn’t turn around, and
Kyouichi doesn’t speak, and at his side his hand starts to throb with pain.
 
Kyouichi’s bandage is gone by the time he gets home. He doesn’t go back to look
for it.
***** These Four Walls *****
“Do you want the Rose Bride?”
Touga is sprawled wide over the couch alongside Kyouichi, his legs angled out
in front of him and an arm slung over the back of the furniture alongside the
other. He’s holding a glass in his hand, turning it idly in his fingers so the
dark liquid inside laps dangerously close to spilling over the lip of the cup.
Kyouichi doesn’t know what it is Touga is drinking any more than he knows what
is inside the glass the academy chairman set on the coffee table in front of
him without asking if he wanted it. That glass remains smooth, the surface
unmarked by any trace of Kyouichi’s fingerprints, the liquid undisturbed by any
idle movement.
Kyouichi fixes his gaze on the smooth surface inside his untouched glass,
staring into the dark color of whatever it is inside rather than looking up to
meet the gaze of the pale-haired man sitting on the other couch across from
them or sideways to see the drag of that mocking smile clinging to the angle of
Touga’s mouth. Kyouichi’s jacket feels heavy on his shoulders, like the crisp
folds of it might catch and rustle with the smallest movement. When he speaks
his voice has the same brittle, ironed-in edge to it. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Touga sounds amused, his voice as liquid and dark as if
it’s sound splashing against the inside of his glass instead of a drink. He
brings the cup to his mouth, presses his lips flush against the edge to take a
sip; it’s not until Touga’s throat works over the swallow of liquid that
Kyouichi realizes that he’s looked up, that he’s staring at the other.
Touga sits up off the support of the couch, tipping himself forward with
unthinking grace to set the glass against the edge of the coffee table. “What
do you want?” He drops back against the cushions, reclining as easily as if
it’s his own home and not the chairman’s, turning to smile at Kyouichi as if
they’re the only people in the whole of the world. “What do you aspire to?” His
fingers lift from the back of the couch, his wrist shifts alongside Kyouichi’s
shoulder. There’s a weight against Kyouichi’s hair, the ghost of a touch
against the strands. Kyouichi’s skin prickles like it’s a live wire. “What do
you wish to be?”
Heat winds down Kyouichi’s spine, tendrils of electricity curling around his
vertebrae to crackle up and threaten the soft space at the back of his skull.
He leans forward sharply, drawing himself in and away from the birdwing flutter
of Touga’s touch against him.
“What’s the point of asking those questions?” he asks. The words crack over his
lips, drag harsh as gravel in the back of his throat. “First of all, I don’t
trust you.”
“Oh, please,” Touga purrs. His voice is like velvet, soft as his touch, dark as
his hair. Kyouichi wants to shut his eyes, wants to let that voice spill over
him like the liquid in Touga’s glass sliding over the other’s tongue and down
into the heat of his throat. He keeps them open, keeps staring at the edge of
the table in front of him instead. “Aren’t you my only friend?”
Kyouichi can feel the suggestion of fingers at the back of his neck,
hallucinated pressure weighting against his hair, his shirt, his skin. He
doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t look to meet Touga’s gaze. His fingers dig in
hard against the back of his clasped hands. Kyouichi can feel the ache run down
the whole of his arms. “True friendship doesn’t exist in this world.”
“You think so?”
Kyouichi looks sideways at Touga without turning his head. Touga is looking
straight at him, his eyes fixed on Kyouichi’s face, his head propped up on his
hand so he can tip into relaxation while he smiles at the other. He almost
looks like he’s paying attention. He almost looks like he cares. Kyouichi digs
his fingernails in viciously against the back of his hand and tells himself he
can feel a years-old bruise rising to the surface under his fingertips. “I know
so.”
Touga’s mouth twitches, his smile threatens to crack into a laugh. “Is
that...is that what you really believe?” He sounds like he’s amused, like he’s
doubting, as if the force of Kyouichi’s words and the weight of his actions are
nothing at all, as if they’re the loose pages of a diary torn open and left to
scatter in the catch of the wind.
Kyouichi can feel his teeth set one against each other. His jaw aches with the
pressure of it. “Get to the point.”
Touga’s lashes flutter, his smile gives way to a huff of an exhale. “Then why
are you trying to reach the castle where eternity dwells?” His hand drops back
across the support of the couch behind Kyouichi’s shoulders. “Is it because
something eternal exists there?” Fingers flex, a touch skims Kyouichi’s hair.
“You believe you can find eternal friendship, perhaps?”
Kyouichi doesn’t have an answer for that. Touga doesn’t wait for one. His
fingers are back in Kyouichi’s hair, his touch sliding in against the weight
spilling over the back of the other’s neck. Kyouichi wants to pull away, wants
to draw back, wants to be gone from this room and this conversation and this
friction of Touga’s fingertips against him; but he can’t make himself move,
electricity has climbed the ladder of his spine and seized into the back of his
skull and Touga’s fingers are in his hair, Touga’s touch is skimming the back
of his neck, and Kyouichi’s heart is pounding, his breath is catching on
adrenaline he hasn’t let himself feel since he was too young of a child to know
any better.
Touga’s hand slides in, his palm fits against the back of Kyouichi’s neck.
Kyouichi is still staring at the coffee table, his gaze fixed on the surface
before him, but he’s not seeing anything of the night-dark surroundings; his
focus is on the shift of the couch next to him as Touga moves in closer, as
Touga’s hip comes in to bump and fit against his own. Touga’s arm is around his
shoulders, Touga’s fingers are sliding into his hair; when Touga leans in his
lips skim Kyouichi’s hair, his mouth brushes the curve of Kyouichi’s ear.
Kyouichi feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, feels
like his skin is going to come alight and burn away the whole of who he is to
leave only ash to be swept away by the huff of Touga’s exhale against his skin.
Touga’s fingers push up into Kyouichi’s hair. Kyouichi’s lashes flutter, their
motion dragged down by the weight of heat running through him. He can’t keep
his focus on the table in front of him, can’t keep his vision pinned to that
point of stability; his thoughts are whirling, his breathing is coming faster.
His fingernails are bruising against the backs of his hands. Touga’s mouth
touches Kyouichi’s skin, his hair, before settling in against the back of
Kyouichi’s ear, against the soft, delicate space that feels electric just from
the heat of someone else’s breath there. “Do you remember that girl we found in
the coffin?”
Kyouichi huffs a laugh. It’s not amusement on his tongue. He can’t remember
what it was to be amused. He isn’t sure he’s ever known anything but
resignation. “Did that really even happen?”
Touga ignores him as if Kyouichi hadn’t spoken at all. “The girl said she
wanted to see something eternal, didn’t she?” His fingers slide in against the
collar of Kyouichi’s shirt, his touch catches against the topmost button.
Kyouichi’s hair is heavy against his shoulders, the weight of it left ignored
against his jacket. “Maybe.” Pink strands sliding over elegant fingers, a hand
lifted palm-up, a wrist left vulnerable with the breathless force of
appreciation. Kyouichi lifts his arm to shove his elbow in against Touga’s
chest, forcing the other away as turns his head into the shadow. “I don’t
remember it that well.”
“That night,” Touga says, thoughtfully, apparently as unfazed by Kyouichi’s
rejection as by the other’s unresponsiveness. “It was Akio here who saved her
from that coffin.”
The statement brings Kyouichi back to the present, snaps him back to reality
from the heat-haze of distraction Touga’s touch lulled him to. He looks up at
once, his vision coming into sudden, shocking clarity on the chairman sitting
on the couch opposite from them, a glass in his hand, a smile at his lips, his
gaze fixed full on the other two alongside each other. Kyouichi’s face burns to
heat, his whole body goes tense with sudden self-consciousness. “What?”
“Akio showed the girl something eternal and saved her.” Kyouichi’s attention
swings back around to Touga next to him; Touga’s leaning back in, reaching out
for Kyouichi’s shoulder again, replacing his fingers at the back of the other’s
head. His shirt is half-buttoned, his bare chest catching the pale of the
moonlight on the other side of the windows.
“He what?” Kyouichi asks, and turns his head to stare wide-eyed at the
chairman, at their audience still smiling satisfaction at the picture they’re
making in front of him as Touga’s mouth comes down against Kyouichi’s neck, as
the heat of his lips rushes Kyouichi’s heartbeat the faster under the contact.
Kyouichi shudders over a breath, reaches to grab at Touga’s shoulder to push
the other up and off him, but the motion goes weak somewhere along the way, and
he just ends up with a handful of the other’s undone jacket, clutching against
the support of it as Touga pushes him back down and towards the couch behind
him. Kyouichi blinks hard, struggling for some kind of words to express his
clearing understanding of the moment, of the wine in Touga’s half-empty glass,
of the weight of the chairman’s overtly appreciative gaze, of the heat rising
helplessly in him in answer to the friction of Touga’s mouth against him and
the slide of Touga’s hands working open the front of his jacket and sliding
down towards the front of his pants. “Just who the hell are you?”
Akio’s smile flashes white in the dark of the room. His eyes are fathomless in
the shadows. “The throb of the engine feels good doesn’t it?”
Kyouichi blinks, feeling like he’s falling away from the conversation, like
somehow he missed some connecting portion of this interaction. “What are you
talking about?” he manages, his skin prickling with uncertainty to edge him
towards fear, towards the growing sense that he’s in over his head; and then
Touga’s hand slides down over the front of Kyouichi’s pants, Touga’s touch
presses against the hard heat of Kyouichi’s body, and Kyouichi’s eyes go wide,
he chokes out a moan of helpless reaction as his back arches, as his body
curves up to meet the friction of Touga palming him through the fabric of his
pants.
“Let me show you the End of the World,” the chairman says. He’s moving against
the couch across from them, settling himself in against the cushions like he’s
making himself comfortable, but Kyouichi can’t turn his head, can’t drag his
vision back into focus from the heat-haze settling over him, from the
distraction of Touga’s hands sliding over his bare chest and Touga’s mouth
working a line up against the edge of his jaw. “To you now, as well.”
Kyouichi drags a breath into his lungs, struggles to clutch for coherency
instead of to Touga’s shoulders, to pull himself back together from the
unmaking he can feel coming for him. “Are you saying you’re…” he forces out;
and then Touga’s fingers slide under the waistband of his pants, and Touga’s
touch drags in against the flushed heat of sensitive skin, and Kyouichi loses
his train of thought and his composure at once as the draw of the shadows pulls
him in and under.
He doesn’t notice the darkness filling his lungs, only the heat spilling out
into his veins.
***** Burned Out Flames *****
Kyouichi has become resigned to disappointment.
It’s something he’s grown to expect. Things were simpler in his youth, when the
warmth of a smile or the touch of gentle fingers against a bruised hand were
enough to all but lift his feet from the earth, to send him floating through
the rest of his day with a heart light enough that he felt he could see himself
glowing, could feel the happiness warming him from the inside out to glow star-
bright through the mundane responsibilities of the day. His joys were innocent,
straightforward to pursue and easy to claim; and snuffed out as easily, by the
fall of pale hair from a touch gentler than any he had ever felt, by the sudden
awareness of a disparity too much for him to ever hope to cross. Kyouichi is
sure the process must happen for everyone: that slow slide from childhood to
maturity, the loss of simple pleasures in exchange for complex concerns.
Perhaps it’s for the best that his came all at once, innocent happiness sliding
from his grasp along with a loosening knot slipping free of a bandage.
At least having no expectations saves him from the unhappiness of
disappointment.
“Well?” Touga pants against the back of his neck, sounding hot and breathless
and self-satisfied, as if he knows what Kyouichi is going to say before he says
it, as if the possibility of anything else is too impossible to even be
considered. “Doesn’t the throb of the engine feel good?”
Kyouichi doesn’t turn his head to look back at Touga behind him, doesn’t push
at the bed to meet the heavy wet of the other’s arrhythmic thrusts into him.
“Not particularly.”
Touga huffs an exhale. His breath feels sticky at Kyouichi’s hair, thick and
humid as if he’s licked a path against the back of the other’s neck. “Oh, no?”
“You have weird tastes,” Kyouichi tells him, still without moving. He can feel
Touga moving inside him, can feel the strain and drag of the other pushing into
the tension of his body. There’s no satisfaction to it, hardly any heat; it’s
just sticky, wet against Kyouichi’s thighs and with a dull, unpleasant ache
intruding into him with each of Touga’s clumsy movements. He wonders how much
longer it will take for Touga to finish. “It’s not good.”
Touga’s hand slides against Kyouichi’s hip, an attempt at a caress that clings
against sweat-dampened skin and makes Kyouichi grimace with the illusion of
intimacy the touch brings with it. When Touga leans in his mouth almost touches
Kyouichi’s ear, when he speaks his voice is soft and gentle with more sincerity
than Kyouichi has heard from him in years. “You don’t like it because I’m
driving?”
Kyouichi reaches out to shove Touga’s hand away from that uncomfortable
pressure at his hip. “I don’t like not being in control!” he snaps. When he
tips his head forward it’s to pull away from the heat of Touga’s breath at his
ear, from the sound of that voice so close to his thoughts. “Or letting anyone
get too deep into my heart!”
Touga’s movement goes still, the rhythm of his hips stalls to nothing. Kyouichi
is expecting rejection, is ready for anger; but when Touga speaks his tone is
still gentle, still so soft as to sound almost affectionate, as if he’s trying
to fall back in time to nostalgia for a childhood connection that was never
more than an illusion in the first place. “You never could hold in your
hostility, could you?”
There’s too much knowing on the words, too much assumed intimacy for a
friendship that was never more than a bruise against a delicate hand. Kyouichi
can feel his patience snap, can feel his bare-minimum tolerance -- for the
discomfort, for the heat, for Touga himself -- give way in a single toppling
rush. “You think I care?” he snaps, and he’s pulling away, drawing free of the
ache of Touga’s cock inside him as he rolls over the sheets onto his stomach to
press his face down against the soft of the pillows.
He’s expecting Touga to reach out for him, expecting to have the touch of a
too-familiar hand at the inside of his thigh or a transparent attempt at
comfort patting at his shoulder. But Touga doesn’t touch him, just lets
Kyouichi breathe against the pillows while the cool of the air soothes his
overheated body, and Kyouichi can feel the tension of unhappiness in him unwind
a little as he breathes, can feel the knot of miserable strain in his chest
loosen like it’s thinking of letting him go. It’s a relief to have the pressure
inside him gone, comforting to not have the disparity between fantasy and
reality driven home with every movement of Touga’s hips; after a moment
Kyouichi even lifts his head from the pillow and turns sideways to look at
Touga through the fall of his hair. Touga’s just watching him -- not reaching,
not pushing, not attempting anything at all -- just looking at Kyouichi, his
eyes focused completely on the other’s face like he’s trying to learn the
details of his expression, and something in Kyouichi’s chest tightens again, a
different knot cinching hard against his breathing and aching in his throat.
Kyouichi brings his arm up and under him, angling his elbow under his head to
prop him up a little higher off the pillow as he meets Touga’s gaze. “What are
you going to do?” he asks, the words drawn up and out of him by Touga’s focus,
by the unfeigned attention in the other’s gaze on him, like he might actually
care what Kyouichi has to say. “Are you just going to duel Utena Tenjou? Just
do what End of the World wants?”
Something flickers across Touga’s face; a shadow, maybe, or maybe a suggestion
of shock, some half-forgotten memory drawn up by Kyouichi’s words. The
unconscious curve of his smile goes slack, his gaze falls away to the pillows
beneath them; but it’s surrender, this time, instead of inattention. Kyouichi
can see Touga’s throat work as he swallows. “I hear you.”
Kyouichi’s skin prickles with heat, like electricity is sparking from the
surrender of Touga’s mouth to come alive in the space between them before
grounding out into him and returning some measure of his absent enthusiasm to
the resigned unhappiness of his thoughts. He braces his hand against the
mattress to push himself up, to rise off the sheets and over his knees so he
can shake his hair back over his shoulders, so he can lift his head and let the
illumination overhead kiss against the lines of his face.
“It’s time to rise from our coffins!” he says, letting his voice ring into
certainty as Touga looks up at him, his gaze cast upward to track the rise of
Kyouichi’s motion. Kyouichi reaches out for Touga’s skin, presses his fingers
close against the dip of the other’s shoulder; when he swings his leg up to
straddle Touga’s hips it’s with elegance behind the motion, as if it’s some
instinct or long-practiced skill, as if he’s echoing an action learned in the
shadows of an empty dojo instead of flinging himself forward into the unknown.
“From the coffins End of the World has prepared for us!” His knees tighten at
Touga’s hips, his balance steadies over the other, and when he lets himself
rock back and down the slide of Touga into him is smoother, steadier,
satisfying friction dragging over an itch instead of painful abuse on aching
nerve endings. Kyouichi’s breath spills out of him as his hips come flush with
Touga’s, his lungs emptying themselves as his body throbs with fullness, and
beneath him Touga lifts his hands to reach for Kyouichi’s hips, to brace his
fingers in against the curve of the other’s body.
“I’ll have my answer soon,” Touga says, and his grip tightens at Kyouichi, his
fingers brace the other steady as his hips rise to thrust up and into Kyouichi
over him. “Tonight!”
Kyouichi’s mouth curves up onto a smile so immediate he doesn’t even have to
think of it, doesn’t have a chance to tether it back into a smirk. “Tonight?”
he says, and he’s leaning forward over Touga beneath him, sliding up and
dropping back down with rough speed that sates some ache in him, that jolts
some measure of heat into his veins. It’s still painful, there’s still a dull
hurt inside his ill-adjusted body; but at least this is pain he’s bringing to
himself, this is a discomfort he can take charge of. He’s moving himself onto
Touga’s length, he’s steering the depth and the angle of the other’s motion
into him; and for a few moments, that in itself is enough. But then Kyouichi’s
legs start to ache, muscles protesting sustaining this unfamiliar action for
more than a few seconds, and the warmth inside him fails to spike to anything
more than distant heat; and Touga goes still beneath him, his body easing to
lie heavy against the bed while Kyouichi is left to move over him.
Kyouichi feels Touga’s hands at his hips ease, feels the brief surge of
adrenaline between them flicker and vanish like a guttering candle. Touga
blinks, the smile at his lips easing into calm consideration. “Saionji.”
Kyouichi keeps moving, maintaining his rhythm even as whatever he so-briefly
found slides through his grip like sand. “Yeah?”
Touga’s hands slide away from Kyouichi’s hips, trailing down the other’s thighs
like he can’t be bothered to maintain the force of his hold. “Standing like
that is dangerous.”
Kyouichi doesn’t answer for a long moment. Maybe it’s pettiness, an
unwillingness to capitulate so readily to the assumed dominance in Touga’s
voice. Maybe it’s desperation hot in him, some anxious need to seek out that
satisfaction he found so briefly in that first independent movement. Maybe it’s
just hope, the allure of a childish belief that things can be different, that
if he moves fast enough, if he reaches far enough, if he strains with
everything in him that Touga’s grip will tighten, that Touga’s eyes will focus,
that the oppressive humidity in the air will turn to magic and the exhausted
pant of Kyouichi’s breathing will become the catch of thrilled adrenaline and
it will be like that first time again, when Touga’s fingers touched Kyouichi’s
cheek like something fragile and Touga’s mouth was electric at Kyouichi’s lips.
But Kyouichi’s legs are starting to shake, and his body is starting to hurt,
and the brief arousal that flushed him half-hard is dissipating to leave him
limp and dissatisfied once again. He keeps moving for another thrust, working
through the motion more from inertia than expectation; and then he goes still
on Touga’s lap, and blinks, and lets the last tension of hope drain out of his
body.
“Yeah,” he says, and he slides forward and off Touga before he falls back onto
the other side of the bed and turns over face-down against the sheets to
breathe against the weight of the blankets beneath him. There’s a moment of
quiet; and then Touga pushes himself up onto an elbow, and turns in to fit his
knees to the inside of Kyouichi’s, and Kyouichi shuts his eyes and waits for
Touga to finish using him.
It’s his own fault, he tells himself as Touga pushes into him and starts to
move with clumsy, panting haste. He’s long since outgrown a belief in magic.
***** Mouth to Mouth *****
Kyouichi can see the letter against Touga’s bedside table.
He’s not deliberately looking at it. It’s more that the white envelope caught
his wandering gaze, the crisp edge and neatly imprinted seal holding his
attention with the idle interest that comes in moments like these, when his
heat-hazed thoughts are drifting far afield from immediate reality. It’s easier
to let his gaze hold to that fixed point, that single detail of mild interest,
while the rest of his attention is otherwise occupied.
It takes Touga a moment to notice. He’s been focused on what he’s doing for the
last ten minutes, on the rhythm of his arm and the forward motion of slick
fingers while Kyouichi lets himself relax over the bed; Kyouichi doesn’t even
realize Touga has noted where his attention has landed until the other takes a
breath and asks “Did you get one?” without slowing the steady rhythm of his
motion.
Kyouichi turns his head against the pillow, lifting his gaze up to the ceiling
of the bedroom and away from the white edge of Touga’s letter. “Yeah.” He shuts
his eyes and sighs an exhale as he lets himself go completely slack over
Touga’s bed, lets his knee tip open wide across the sheets. “I just got a
letter from End of the World.” Touga huffs a laugh, a soft sound of affirmation
instead of interruption. Kyouichi draws his foot up over the sheets, braces his
heel in against the soft of the mattress beneath him. “A farewell letter.”
“I’ll bet she got a letter of her own, as well.” There’s no shift in Touga’s
movement, not so much as a flicker of variance to speak to his distraction;
it’s the words that are offhand, an overlay for the steady slide of his fingers
working Kyouichi open, the easy thrust of his touch into the tension of the
other’s body. Kyouichi breathes slow, savoring the distant build of sensation
against his spine as if it’s chocolate melting on his tongue, something as much
to be appreciated in the moment as a conclusion to be sought after. “A letter
quite different from ours.”
Touga shifts against the bed, the sheets rustling as he rocks in closer; when
he reaches to touch Kyouichi it’s to brace his hand against the other’s knee,
his fingers spreading out to steady the inside of Kyouichi’s thigh and urge his
leg slightly wider. Kyouichi lets himself be urged, lets his slow-warmed body
submit entirely to the press of Touga’s grip; when Touga moves again it’s with
greater force, with a surge of intent behind his touch beyond just the careful
process of stretching Kyouichi open. His fingers drive into Kyouichi, his touch
pressing hard into the other’s body, and Kyouichi takes a breath and lets it go
with deliberate calm, letting the heat of Touga’s movement unfold up his spine
with slow inevitability, like the petals of a flower unfurling one by one in
answer to the glow of sunlight. Touga works into him for a moment, his
breathing coming faster on the effort of his motion, and Kyouichi breathes
deep, letting his cock stir against his stomach without reaching down to speed
the process. He’s almost fully hard by the time Touga speaks again, sounding
like he’s struggling to catch his breath for the words. “However, the
revolution doesn’t interest her.”
Kyouichi opens his eyes to gaze up at the ceiling once more. “So the Power of
Dios will remain sealed and the revolution won’t happen?”
Touga’s hand tightens at Kyouichi’s thigh, his stroking motion stalls. Kyouichi
tightens around his touch, just once, an involuntary reaction to the sudden
halt of the rhythm driving into him; but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps
gazing up at the ceiling while Touga kneels silently between his legs.
“I don’t know.” Touga sounds sincere in the admission, honest and a little
lost. Kyouichi can’t remember the last time he heard him admit to ignorance.
Touga’s hand at Kyouichi’s skin eases, his fingers slide back and out of the
other. Kyouichi can feel the friction of the motion drag against him, can feel
the emptiness within him like an ache all its own, a space to be filled, a
loneliness to be assuaged. Touga lifts his hand from Kyouichi’s leg and leans
back against the bed. Kyouichi can hear the sound of fabric shifting as Touga
loosens his pants and slides them down his hips. “I don’t know what End of the
World’s ultimate goal is.”
Kyouichi tips his head down to watch Touga as he strips his pants off his feet,
as he lays himself bare before coming back in to fit his knees between
Kyouichi’s open legs. His head is ducked down, his hair sliding forward over
one shoulder; Kyouichi can see the flex of Touga’s arm as he grips his length
to stroke wet up and against himself. Touga reaches out to brace a hand
alongside Kyouichi’s waist and hold himself steady as he leans in to fit
himself against the spread of the other’s thighs; Kyouichi lifts a hand towards
the spill of crimson as Touga moves, stretching out for the color of the
other’s hair as he leans in over him.
“By the way,” he says, winding his fingers into the strands as Touga rocks up
over his knees and lines himself up. “Do you think Utena Tenjou really knows
now?” Touga lifts his head, his focus coming up to land on Kyouichi’s face, and
Kyouichi looks up to meet the other’s gaze. “About who End of the World really
is?”
Touga’s mouth draws into an angle, tugging up onto a wry smile; his shoulder
lifts, rising into an admission of uncertainty and dismissal at once as he
leans in, as his hand comes up to catch and slide into the curls of Kyouichi’s
hair. His touch is gentle, his fingers careful; the contact winds through the
strands without tangling, smoothing them in and against Kyouichi’s ear and
settling his thumb against the soft skin there before Touga leans in and down
to cross the gap between them. Kyouichi keeps his eyes open, keeps his hand
wound into Touga’s hair; but then Touga’s mouth touches his, the weight of his
lips feather-soft and hesitant, uncertain, like he’s trying to find his way
back through some half-formed dream, and there’s a flicker of heat in
Kyouichi’s chest, a whisper of illumination too faint to be trusted. His lashes
dip, his lips part; and Touga leans in tentatively closer, like he’s exploring
something new and fragile and beautiful, and Kyouichi’s breath catches as
Touga’s tongue touches just against the curve of his mouth. His skin prickles
with sensation, like there’s unseen electricity dancing over the surface of his
body, and as Touga tips his head and licks carefully into Kyouichi’s mouth
Kyouichi’s lashes flutter shut of their own accord to push aside the
distraction of vision. His hand slides up, his fingers curl against the back of
Touga’s neck, and for a long span of heartbeats Kyouichi doesn’t think about
anything at all.
Touga is breathing hard by the time he pulls away. Kyouichi can feel his own
heart fluttering in his chest, can hear the sound of his inhales catching to
heat in his throat; over him Touga’s lashes shift, his gaze lingering on
Kyouichi’s features for a long moment before his mouth curves onto a smile warm
enough to light up the shadow of his eyes. His fingers slide through Kyouichi’s
hair, his touch wandering in and against the dark waves as his attention
lingers on the other’s face; his cheeks are flushed as if with sunburn, as if
with embarrassment, as if with the self-conscious color of arousal. Kyouichi
can hear the sound of the other’s throat working when he swallows. “It’s been a
long time since I’ve ridden a bike with you.”
Kyouichi has never heard Touga’s voice sound like that before; or if he has,
it’s so far in the past he discarded it as a remnant of a dream, an illusion of
something that never existed in the first place. His throat closes up, his eyes
ache; he has to struggle for air before he can find breath enough for words.
“Yeah,” he says, and pushes his hand up into Touga’s hair, catching the heavy
curtain of color in his fingers, against his skin, like he can feel the warmth
of it spilling into his veins. “How long has it been?”
Touga’s smile is soft, as soft as his voice, as soft as his touch; and then he
leans in, and ghosts a kiss against Kyouichi’s mouth with that same breathless
care, and Kyouichi has to shut his eyes to hold back the ache of almost-tears
threatening his lashes. Touga’s skin draws against the inside of his thighs,
Touga’s hips arc forward with deliberate care; and then they’re sliding
together, and their kiss breaks off into a gasp as their bodies fit into place
against each other. Kyouichi’s hand tightens at Touga’s neck, Touga’s shoulder
flexes as he holds himself steady; and then they both move, Kyouichi arching up
and Touga pressing forward, and Kyouichi can feel the heat of the friction
spread out into him like the half-pleasant ache of a healing bruise.
Against the silk of Touga’s sheets, Kyouichi’s hair curls around Touga’s like a
vine around the blossom of a climbing rose.
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