Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1020769.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Subarashiki_Kono_Sekai_|_The_World_Ends_With_You
  Relationship:
      Hanekoma_Sanae/Kiryu_Yoshiya, Joshua_Kiryu/_Sanae_Hanekoma, Hanua
  Character:
      Joshua_Kiryu, Hanekoma_Sanae
  Additional Tags:
      Lapfucking, Emotional_Manipulation, Grinding, Unhealthy_Relationships,
      Blackmail
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-27 Chapters: 1/4 Words: 4325
****** Paragons and Partialism ******
by PinkFringedFury
Summary
     “Why’d you pick him?” he asks.
     Joshua raises an eyebrow and blinks, just once.
     “I would have thought that was obvious,” he says, a parent indulging
     a questioning child. Hanekoma shrugs. Joshua’s lips twist into a
     knowing smile. “Oh, I see. That’s not what you’re asking me.”
     The Composer picks up his coffee cup in both hands and raises it to
     his lips. His gaze is unreadable. He considers the question.
     “Cocksucker’s lips, dear,” he answers. Hanekoma doesn’t flinch, but
     his stomach tightens like he’s been winded.
Notes
     Part one of however many chapters it takes for me to get to a gross
     Josh/Neku/Mr. H threeway.
“Met your Proxy, today.”
Joshua pauses; an exaggerated display of expectation. The page of the magazine
he’s pretending to read stirs, caught in the recycled breeze forced through the
café by an ancient ceiling fan. It grinds ceaselessly, clicking with each
revolution of the blades, impossible to ignore or to become accustomed to. It
drives customers away, that endless sound, insidious and aggravating. It does
not drive Joshua away. Nothing does.
The stillness hangs between them, familiar, welcome and threatening. Hanekoma
doesn’t speak first, but he’s the first to move. He passes Joshua’s table,
places a white china cup down with a rattling clink, just out of reach; he
continues to walk as though the gesture comes naturally. Perhaps it does, these
days. Owning a coffee place isn’t that bad. It has its charms.
Joshua watches him make a circuit between tables, wiping them down, cleaning
debris that isn’t there. Hanekoma can feel the Composer’s stare, can hear every
minute movement, can smell the familiar bitterness of the steaming cup of House
Blend lost amongst too much milk and too much sugar. Saccharine and revolting,
what a waste. He keeps his back to Joshua and continues to ghost a damp rag
across each of Wildkat’s tables, smearing them with a chemical glaze that dulls
the metal tabletops. Joshua’s table shines in the low lights.
When Joshua takes the saucer, the slow scrape of china over stainless steel
makes Hanekoma’s teeth ache, deep into the root. The soft, wet sound of parting
lips triggers an entirely different ache. Joshua sips, swallows, places the cup
back in the saucer. He wipes the pad of his thumb across his lips to clean
them. He finally turns the page of his magazine, smoothing it down. Then, he
speaks.
“Oh?”
Hanekoma nods. He completes his patrol of the café and returns to the counter,
wiping it down in lazy circles.
“Nearly snuffed his partner,” he says. Casual. Off-hand. “Got him to apologise
to her, though. Eventually. Gave them a little something-something to make the
bonding experience easier.”
Joshua chuckles. He returns his attention to his magazine, but Hanekoma knows
better than to assume the Composer’s focus is elsewhere.
“I’d call that generous,” says Joshua, “but I assume it came with another
dreary fatherly pep-talking.”
Hanekoma snorts and shakes his head.
"You’re cruel, kid.”
“Really? I thought you had thicker skin than that, dear.”
Hanekoma turns and sets the damp rag on the counter, next to the bottle of
store-brand cleaning product and the vintage cash register. No amount of
scrubbing will lift the coffee rings ingrained into every surface. He likes it
that way.
“It was real cruel of you to take his memories for his entry fee.”
Joshua takes another sip of his latte.
“Is that what they took from him?” He eyes Hanekoma over the rim of his cup.
“How convenient.”
The fan clicks overhead, a tick-tick-tick that adds a much needed stabilising
staccato to the quiet. Hanekoma’s sandals clap against the linoleum tiles as he
idles past the tables and heads for the door. Wildkat's heavy metal shutters
block out the night, stretched from the left wall to the right. A shield. The
simple wooden door at the far left of the café is his only exit.
Beyond the boundaries of Wildkat, Shibuya dozes like a tranquilised beast. As
Hanekoma twists the café's kitschy-yet-stylish sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’,
the radiant heat of his palms mists against the window. He wants to exhale, to
fog the glass and scrawl words and images and pictures through the vapour, but
instead he turns to lean back against the door. The window chills his back
through his shirt and waistcoat.
“Why’d you pick him?” he asks.
Joshua raises an eyebrow and blinks, just once.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” he says, a parent indulging a
questioning child. Hanekoma shrugs. Joshua’s lips twist into a knowing smile.
“Oh, I see. That’s not what you’re asking me.”
The Composer picks up his coffee cup in both hands and raises it to his lips.
His gaze is unreadable. He considers the question.
“Cocksucker’s lips, dear,” he answers. Hanekoma doesn’t flinch, but his stomach
tightens like he’s been winded.
Joshua pushes his chair out a few inches, just enough room to cross one leg
over the other. He rests the cup and saucer on his knee and watches Hanekoma
with an air of immense satisfaction.
“You noticed them too, then?” he asks. It’s a sweet question which poorly veils
a dirty slur. The Producer shrugs, grins, rubs the back of his neck.
“Never took you for a mouth kind of guy,” he replies.
Joshua isn’t, but he is.
Joshua’s mouth is not quite a perfect cupid’s bow: his upper lip is just
slightly too thin for the lower. It pulls back across his neat little teeth
when he smiles too widely, and sits in a pretty pout when he’s lost in thought
or displeased. Neku’s aren’t so pretty, but they’re darker, probably firmer.
Warmer. Stronger. Hanekoma feels a delicate, inquisitive tugging at the edges
of his mind and blocks it out. Joshua laughs, a sunrise over a field of
corpses.
“You’re no fun.”
Joshua puts his coffee cup and saucer back on the table. He stands and brushes
off his trousers at the thigh and knee. He folds his arms loosely across his
chest. His expression is thoughtful, almost pensive. Hanekoma makes no move to
lean either forwards or back as the Composer examines him.
"Not like you used to be," he murmurs, and even after all this time the
accusation still stings.
Hanekoma pushes himself away from the door and idles towards the battered
jukebox, next to the stairs which lead down to his office and the bathroom.
Joshua doesn’t turn when Hanekoma passes him; he stares into some unseen
distance and smiles.
“You know, I was never made fully clear on the circumstances of your
ascension,” he says. Hanekoma reaches the jukebox. The keys and buttons are so
faded that only force of habit remains to connect a light to its song.
“I can hardly claim to know the structures and hierarchies of the angelic
order,” says Joshua, twining a strand of hair around his index finger “but I’d
heard suicide was a mortal sin.”
Hanekoma stops walking. He was almost at the staircase. He waits for Joshua to
keep speaking, because if there is one thing he can rely on with total
certainty, it's that Joshua insists on having the last word when he's in this
mood. Typical.
“Tell me,” Joshua says. His voice is gentle. “Which one of them was it you died
for?”
Hanekoma keeps perfectly still, a figure of calm ease cast into a lazy slouch,
hands in his pockets. Joshua turns, slowly.
“I assume there were several. One wouldn’t have been enough.” A pause. The fan
clicks. The dull, manufactured breeze stirs Joshua’s soft hair and the loose
hem of Hanekoma’s shirt. The Composer gives a small sigh of disappointment – a
sound that sends a shudder of anticipation down Hanekoma's spine.
“Careless, dear,” he chides. “Did you fall in love with him?” Hanekoma’s
shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. Joshua hums. “Oh, I see. He fell in love
with you.”
Joshua’s shoes – tailor made, expensive, white brogues – make almost no sound
as he walks towards Hanekoma. He stops behind him, all of one pace away from
connecting with the Producer's back. Heat radiates from Hanekoma – a welcome
disparity of temperature. Joshua examines the loops and twists of thread in
Hanekoma’s waistcoat, tracing the complex network of interconnecting fibres
with his eyes.
“Won’t you sit down?”
It’s not a question. They both know that. Hanekoma turns in place, twisting on
the balls of his feet, until he’s facing Joshua. He looks down, the Composer
looks up, and in that moment Hanekoma makes his choice.
“Sure.”
He takes Joshua’s chair, because it is the only chair in Wildkat Joshua will
sit in; perfectly central, by number and location, with a clear line of sight
in all directions, yet veiled by the low lights of the café from outside gazes.
The chair isn’t warm when he settles into it, but that’s no surprise. It's
nothing new. Joshua moves his magazine to the far end of the table, closing it
and smoothing out the cover, and leans forward to set the empty cup and its
saucer next to the magazine. Once everything is to his liking, he faces
Hanekoma and places his hands on Hanekoma’s shoulders. He rests them there so
very delicately as he straddles his Producer’s lap, and neither of them are
certain who the gesture is meant for. Hanekoma keeps his eyes trained on the
Composer, even as he slides his own hands up Joshua’s sides, even as he rucks
up the kid's loose shirt, even as he strokes his thumbs across the cold skin
below. Joshua takes two brutal handfuls of Hanekoma's hair, crushing and
flaking the congealed styling product he finds beneath his fingers. Hanekoma
goes willingly when Joshua pulls ever so slightly, guiding him forwards. No
guidance is needed. No guidance has ever been needed.
His lips find the hollow of Joshua’s throat, tasting no pulse – only the dull
vibrations of Joshua’s smug hum. He handles Joshua like a landmine; all slow,
careful movements, attention to detail and the utmost focus. Joshua tuts.
“No, no, no,” he chides. “Don’t bore me with this.” He leans down, rolls his
backside against Hanekoma’s crotch, feels the drag and press of a thick,
swollen cock beneath poor quality fabric. He presses his lips to Hanekoma’s
jaw, working a trail of cool, dry kisses up to his ear.
“I’ll take a fucking just like all your other boys, thank you.”
Hanekoma’s teeth catch on Joshua’s collarbone and scrape. The Composer leans
into the bite with a blissful sigh, smiling at the wall, gazing at the curving
shapes and angular blocks of an exclusive CAT mural. Hanekoma’s bite becomes a
wet, firm sucking – halfway painful, but compensated for by the inquisitive
roaming of broad hands across Joshua’s chest.
Hanekoma’s hands slip out of Joshua’s shirt, plucking at the buttons until it
hangs fully open. He pushes the fabric off Joshua’s narrow shoulders and chases
it down the Composer’s thin arms, down to where it pools at Joshua’s elbows.
The kisses he lavishes on Joshua's bare chest turn from chaste and soft to
urgent, open-mouthed, hungry things. He leaves wet trails across whatever flesh
he finds, encouraged by pleased groans and the prickle of goosebumps against
his lips.
“Tease,” Joshua laughs. He drops his hands from Hanekoma’s hair and kneads at
the Producer’s sloping shoulders. “Did you make them all beg for it? For shame.
Now who’s cruel?”
“They weren’t all spoilt brats like you,” Hanekoma retorts with a playful tone.
“They knew how to ask nicely.”
Joshua giggles.
“What did they call you, during?” he asks. “Sir? Daddy?” He frowns as Hanekoma
groans thickly and tugs him closer, bringing him further into his lap in a
sharp tug of Joshua's hips. “Don’t tell me it was something so pedestrian as
that. Ugh, you’re breaking my heart.”
Hanekoma’s searching hand finds Joshua’s crotch and squeezes, firm and
forceful. His arm slackens to accommodate for a bucking of hips that doesn’t
come. Joshua pouts and sighs, stroking the backs of his knuckles down
Hanekoma’s stubbled cheek.
“Sorry,” he drawls. He lifts his hips into the touch – a cheap performance of
an organic reflex. "Do try to remember that I’m a little better at this than
your usual tarts.”
"Most kids don't complain when they're getting worked over, you know,” Hanekoma
smirks. "If you're wanting the real-deal experience, you gotta play along."
“Silly me,” sighs Joshua. “I forgot, I’m supposed be a trembling mess of
hormones, quite at your mercy – or however this one usually goes." He gives a
deadpan, monotone moan. Hanekoma laughs under his breath, and scrapes his
stubbled chin against Joshua's shoulder, prompting a critical tut from Joshua.
"Honestly, I have to say I'm disappointed so far. It’s certainly not what I was
expecting.”
Hanekoma rolls his eyes and grinds the heel of his palm against the solid press
of the Composer’s erection. There’s no heat to Joshua, not the way that
Hanekoma wishes there was heat. Joshua doesn’t squirm and sweat and sob for
even this much touch, not like the other boys, and of course he doesn’t; Joshua
is a creature of will and desire, why would he ever experience a want he could
not satisfy? It won't be anywhere near as satisfying, but then again - it never
is.
Memories burst behind his eyes each time he blinks. The boy with bleach blonde
hair, who trembled and yelped at any touch to the sensitive skin around his
homemade piercings. The boy with green eyes and a bruised jaw, who came looking
for a fight and left with red cheeks (both upper and lower) and a much better
attitude. The broad-shouldered boy who bit him hard enough to scar – a
misshapen ring of punctures still tender on Hanekoma’s hip. The boy with
protruding ribs who pushed back onto every thrust and shuddered for an hour and
a half as a man twice his age stroked comforting circles across his back and
told him he was safe, adored and wanted. A deep pang of longing twists like a
shard of glass in Hanekoma’s chest. A painful twitch draws his balls close to
his groin.
“How sweet,” murmurs Joshua. “You held them after. How nice of you to offer
basic courtesy to the little boys you fucked senseless. What a perfect
gentleman.”
Hanekoma prickles with resentment, shaking his head to rid himself of Joshua’s
prying. The numb prodding retreats from his thoughts as Joshua laughs and yanks
Hanekoma’s hair. It forces the Producer’s head back, exposes his throat, leaves
him open for Joshua’s wicked teeth to catch and snare on his skin. It’s hardly
the bite it could be, all things considered, but it hurts like hell and his
nerves blister with pain. He cries out, and that simple act of protest finally
transforms an ugly performance into something better - a war of wills that both
Producer and Composer know and need. He can’t fuck Joshua like the other boys,
because he loved those boys for their uncertainty and their willingness and
their adoration, and Joshua is an abomination. Joshua’s lips twist into a grin.
“That’s a nasty thing to think,” he croons. His hands return to smoothing over
Hanekoma’s cheeks and neck. “I’m hurt. You haven’t even kissed me, yet.”
Hanekoma attempts a witty retort, but elects to keep his silence; no more
reminiscing, no more inadvertent sharing of memories. Only this – the mind
games, the cruelty and a moment of vicious, urgent intimacy. It'll annoy Joshua
more, that way. They don’t kiss. They will never kiss. It'd ruin everything.
They shed only the clothes that are necessary. Joshua’s shirt still hangs loose
and limp around his elbows. One leg remains in his jeans, whilst the other leg
clings bare around Hanekoma’s waist and the back of the chair in which he’s
sitting. Hanekoma himself fumbles with his belt as Joshua peppers his
Producer’s jaw with kisses, insatiable and demanding. He wants to shove his
fingers into Joshua’s mouth, bring the boy to his knees and watch him suckle as
he glides his skinny fingers over his slender cock. He wants to watch Joshua
wince and pant as he's stroked into desperation from the inside. He traces the
ridges of Joshua's spine, but Joshua bats away Hanekoma’s probing fingers as
they slide between his cheeks.
“Spare us the formalities, dear,” he quips. Hanekoma knows that the Composer
will accommodate him effortlessly – a fact that only serves to ruin the fun of
the fantasy. He misses the pleasure and effort it takes to prepare his
partners; to feel them pant against his shoulder and twitch around his fingers,
fighting and relaxing, enduring the discomfort for the promise of something
better. Of course Joshua would take even that much fun away from him. However,
it gratifies Hanekoma immensely when he wraps an arm around Joshua’s waist and
earns a coo of delight from the Composer as he shifts into position.
“Finally,” says Joshua, “a little enthusiasm! And here I thought I’d have to do
all the work again.”
Hanekoma ignores the comment, too focused on gripping the root of his erection
and guiding it into Joshua's body. There’s no resistance to the breach – not
because the kid's relaxed or comfortable, but simply because Joshua does not
will there to be any. No need for playing it gentle, then. The blunt, sticky
head of Hanekoma’s cock drives deep into Shibuya’s Composer, and pleasure
seizes Hanekoma’s muscles as he rocks his hips and thrusts up into the slick
tension that crushes around his shaft. However, it's once against the lack of
heat that revolts him on a primal level; the sensation is that of fucking a
sopping silicone toy, rather than some hot, sweaty, human body. Joshua hums
with faux-sympathy.
“Oh, you poor thing,” he sighs, breathy and blissful as he bounces in
Hanekoma’s lap. The wet, sucking sound of a thick dick in an over-lubed hole
punctuates the melody of hitched breathing and the percussive beat of the
damned ceiling fan. “Having to have sex with a God, instead of some broken
little thing with Daddy issues and an overripe cherry just gagging to be
popped.”
Hanekoma cuts him off with a sharp thrust, aimed up and deep. Joshua gasps like
a boy and that makes it all so much better. He deliberately clenches hard
around Hanekoma on the downstroke out of spite, pulling a sharp grunt from the
Producer that tapers into a laugh. To catch Joshua off-guard isn’t what makes
Hanekoma moan; it’s to force Joshua to enjoy – really, truly, genuinely enjoy –
the constraints of his new, limited body. Joshua’s indignance is soon lost to a
syrupy groan, and he abandons his displeasure in favour of closed eyes and an
open mouth. Finally, finally, they stop talking and start fucking in earnest;
tight, close and possessive.
The chair creaks under the combined weight of Producer and Composer, scratching
against the linoleum. The coffee cup rattles in its saucer whenever Joshua
leans backwards, either to force Hanekoma to push deeper, or to brace back
against the edge of the table. His skin colours – from an immaculate paleness
to an inglorious, undignified shade of pastel pink. There is no heat, for all
that there’s the flush of blood on display, but it’s enough. It’s more than
Hanekoma could ask for, from this particular boy. He pants into the crook of
Joshua’s neck and works the Composer’s twitching erection with a quick and
rhythmic hand. When they're both into it, it's all just so much nicer, really.
Joshua’s cock leaves a sticky kiss against Hanekoma's palm with each jerk of
his fist and swipe of his thumb, and Hanekoma groans a wordless thanks to
Joshua for pushing down with each thrust and driving him deep enough to
brutalise Joshua's prostate. In return, the engorged head of Hanekoma’s
erection is tortured by the bruising, obscene clench of Joshua’s muscles,
denying him the right to pull out or away. Joshua does not sweat, but he gasps
like he’s human and digs his fingernails into Hanekoma’s shoulders, even
through the dual layers of his waistcoat and sweat-soaked shirt. It's as good
as it gets and that's plenty enough for them both when they're this unbearably
close.
Orgasm comes quickly, gracelessly. Joshua continues to snap his hips into
Hanekoma’s hand and makes a noise somewhere between a static hiss and a reedy
moan. Hanekoma doesn’t slow to milk Joshua’s orgasm, to abuse his prostate
until the gland is swollen and traumatised, to drain Joshua of every drop until
he comes dry and sobbing. Nor, he thinks, as he continues the steady pounding,
does he want to. They both have other people for that sort of thing. Joshua has
whoever he damn well pleases, and Hanekoma has his favourite Players. Hanekoma
pictures somebody else. He calls to mind the sticky images of flushed cheeks,
bare skin, blue eyes and dark lashes, a pair of perfect cocksucking lips - wet
and flushed - and orange hair plastered to sweaty skin. A boy who will ask
nicely, who will want to learn, who will beg to bounce in his lap and who will
cling to him like a lifeline. Someone to need him and to be needed in return.
Someone to talk to in soft, low murmurs in the dim afterglow. A weight across
his chest. A boy in his arms.
Joshua makes a disinterested noise when Hanekoma comes to that image, and
Hanekoma genuinely couldn't give a rat's ass if the kid was eavesdropping on
his thoughts, that time. Evidently feeling generous, Joshua gives his Producer
time enough to ride out the aftershocks and doesn't bitch about the mess. He
tucks a strand of blonde hair behind his ear as he sits up straight, hands
splayed on Hanekoma’s chest.
“Better?” he asks, as if it was some noble and compassionate gesture. Perhaps
it was. Hanekoma nods, rakes his own hair back from his forehead, laughs.
“Not bad, kid,” he grins. “I could get used to that kind of job incentive.”
Joshua rolls his eyes and yawns.
“If you’re going to keep saying that after we do this, I’ll find somebody
better to bore me with terrible pillow talk. Help me up.”
It’s not that Joshua needs Hanekoma’s assistance to disengage – he’s perfectly
able to lift himself up and to tug Hanekoma’s flagging erection out from his
body. He’s perfectly capable of grabbing a tissue and cleaning himself up; he
really doesn’t need Hanekoma to support his hips, or to drop to one knee, or to
lick away the mess that drips down Joshua’s pale thighs. But Hanekoma does all
these things with minimal complaint, and a sly grin when he licks over Joshua's
hole and feels it flinch under his tongue. It’s all a reminder, of course, that
a creature like Sanae Hanekoma has ultimately chosen to adhere to Joshua’s
will. It suits them both well enough. For now.
Joshua yawns as he rebuttons his damp shirt. He’s tousled and flushed,
beautiful in the low light, this fuck-drunk heathen God and his damned
puppeteer. There is a moment of silence between them as Hanekoma gets up off
the floor and settles back into the chair. He leans back, legs spread, grinning
at the ceiling. Joshua brushes out the creases in his jeans. It's good; really,
really good.
“You’re going to fuck Neku,” says Joshua.
Hanekoma releases a long, slow breath through his nose. So much for that.
Joshua flexes his fingers and tugs the collar of his shirt back into a pristine
crease.
“I want to watch.”
For the first time that evening, Hanekoma hesitates. He drops his head down,
and looks at Joshua. Joshua looks back, all razorblade sweetness and steel
command.
“Why?” says Hanekoma. His voice is controlled but uncertain. Joshua giggles,
damn him.
“You really can't get it up quite the same way for me, can you?” he says. “I
want to see you do it properly." He waves a hand dismissively at Hanekoma's
expression. "There's no need for that look. I won’t interfere the first time.
Or even the second. I promise.” He drifts to Hanekoma's side and reaches out to
cup the Producer's face, staring down at him with a mixture of fondness and
loathing. “I just want to see you make him cry for it.”
Hanekoma turns his head, and grazes his dry lips against Joshua’s palm. Joshua
laughs, melodic and delighted.
“There's your incentive. Consider it a little bonus for all your hard work so
far.”
“Closing up,” says Hanekoma, jerking his thumb towards the door. Joshua nods,
the very picture of goodwill and amicability.
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll see myself out.”
Hanekoma waves lazily and doesn’t watch the Composer go. He doesn’t look to the
door when it clicks open, or when it clicks shut. He is alone in his café, with
only the tick-tick-tick of the ancient ceiling fan that circulates a dull
breeze, laced with a post-coital tang.
Hanekoma lifts his hands to his face and digs the heels of his palms into his
eyes. There are six hundred and fifty two hours left of the Composer’s game,
before Shibuya is reduced to ruins and fragments of empty data. Before Sanae
Hanekoma will be forced to make one last decision or face the consequences of
those he has already made.
He licks his lips, but his mouth is too dry. He drops his hands from his eyes,
waits for his vision to swim back into focus, and looks across the coffee shop.
One last table to clean, before he can clean himself.
Hanekoma forces himself to his feet and stretches his back, hands on his hips.
He attempts to yawn, but cannot force the gesture. No sleep tonight, evidently.
He pushes Joshua’s chair back in, slotting it beneath the metal table. The
coffee cup rattles in its saucer. Hanekoma reaches for it, and finds it full.
Cold, congealed and untouched. He laughs. He shakes his head. He lifts the cup
and carries it to the counter, where a lush bonsai tree in a hideous jade pot
takes up precious space. Joshua bought it for him, years ago - too many years
to remember when. It was ugly then, and it's ugly now, and every time he leaves
it in the street, it reappears. Usually, it looks all the more healthy for it.
He dumps the contents of the cup into the soil.
Six hundred and fifty one hours remain. There is work to be done. Hanekoma
washes Joshua's cup, locks the door to Wildkat, and whistles tunelessly as he
descends the stairs.
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