Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4089901.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      高速エンジェルエンジン_|_Supersonic_Angel_Engine
  Relationship:
      Sumire/Renji
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, First_Time, Wingfic, Wing_Kink, grossout_humour,
      stupid_90s_teen_boy_homophobic_humour, Demon_Sex, Angel_Sex, opinions_on
      Final_Fantasy_IV, I_am_very_serious_about_the_graphic_violence, it's
      based_on_a_Motoni_Modoru_manga, but_there_is_also_cuddling
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-12-07 Words: 5082
****** Rainshine ******
by Petronia
Summary
     Still he couldn't be bothered to lie: to say that They were never
     beautiful. It was merely that Renji killed angels. Not because they
     deserved it, as that would make them people, but because it was
     better to be predator than prey. It wasn't murder, and it wasn't
     extermination. It was hunting. Did the first human to bring down a
     cave lion in adrenalin and terror claim the pelt as his prize? To
     keep himself warm? As proof it happened? Or because swapping skins
     told him that his soul had been traded in as well?
     You had to love them, to hunt them that way. Them. One of Them.
     Whatever.
That week it rained for three days straight, no breaks. Sumire woke reluctantly
every morning to the sound of raindrops drumming on the balcony, and on the
slanted slate roof across the alleyway. It was disorienting, because the
sixteenth-floor penthouse he called home for lack of a better word had neither.
Then his eyes would focus on the white slash of wing adorning the wall, and
Renji would shift and mutter on the other futon, and he'd remember. Remember,
groan, grab his pants, kick Renji in the hip to wake him up, stagger off to the
bathroom. Run the water. That was the only blip. It was actually nice to have
someone around for once, that wasn't one of the bozos from the angelic
consortium. And the damned thing made a better wall hanging than anything else.
The rest was same old. They'd wend their way to class by second period,
jostling for space under a shared umbrella as they walked. Wait out the school
hours mired in anarchic boredom in an attempt to keep up their cover identities
as disaffected high school students mired in anarchic boredom. Eat conveni
bento for lunch. On Monday they cut afternoon classes, but Tuesday and
Wednesday they stayed the whole day. Sumire didn't need to do homework to make
his grades, and Renji was just as notorious for being a lost cause. They rented
Capcom fighters, went back to Renji's place and played them until they passed
out. And then they did it again.
On Thursday there was a respite in the weather, and they went hunting. The
immediate impetus, apart from Renji's shrinking energy-drinks-and-chips budget,
was a powder blue Toyota MR2 that had splashed them the evening before when
they'd been standing on the curb waiting for the light to change. It was
deliberate. Sumire's trousers were soaked through. Renji got a glimpse at the
driver, and thought he recognized him. Some senior year at Naninani Koudou
Gakuen a ten-minute bus ride away from their own school, an angel obviously –
Sumire had no idea how Renji would know the guy, and didn't care. That much was
enough.
It did turn out that they got the right guy, or at any rate the right car. Or
the right make of car. Any high school senior who owned an MR2 had it coming to
him, anyway. They found the aforementioned vehicle parked on a side street, and
let the air out of the tires. Then they smashed the headlights. Then to
emphasize the point, and because the guy hadn't shown up yet despite the fact
that it was getting dark, they smashed the headlights of every other car parked
along that block. Then they had to run, because some jackass called the cops.
The time spent was not, however, a dead loss: they caught up with their target
in a deserted side street five blocks down, walking in the opposite direction –
so maybe it wasn't his car after all, but by then the point was moot. He was an
angel, and so were his two buddies, whom Renji took down with contemptuous
ease. Sumire thought about how bloody annoying it had been to walk all the way
back from Denny's in drenched trousers, and went for the ribs. A few well-
chained combos with a length of lead pipe, and the target collapsed in a
shuddering heap on the wet concrete. Sumire mopped his lips on the back of his
hand and watched him try to crawl. A whack at the base of the skull would
finish him off, critical-hit style, but that wasn't the point of the exercise.
"Five thousand," Renji was counting. "Ten thousand... Shit, thirty thousand.
What the fuck are you guys made of, huh?" There was glee in his voice, as if
his enemies had literally exploded into a shower of gold coins upon defeat.
Their original target groaned and leveraged himself up onto elbows and knees.
"Are you done?" asked Sumire. "Guy's getting away."
"Like hell he is." And he wasn't, really. They were onto him. Nevertheless,
he'd reached the lamppost, and was pulling himself slowly to his feet, not even
looking at Sumire. That eager to escape. Sumire caught a glimpse of his face,
distorted into a rictus of terror so uncomprehending it didn't look real. The
echo of an itch burgeoned in his thorax between his lungs and his shoulder
blades, and he hefted his pipe.
"Oi, Renji—"
White wings bloomed in the darkness, slashing out toward the sky, and Renji
dived past Sumire, moving so fast he was a blur even to angel eyes. Laughing.
Arm raised.
Exacto knife grip a neon shard in the circle of lamplight.
(They have to try to fly, have to start their engines for us to claim our
prize—)
Sumire watched for a couple of seconds, then stumbled away and threw up behind
someone's trash can. His stomach didn't take to his current lifestyle nearly as
well as his head did. It was exhilarating, though. Arguably better than flying,
even if his digestive system turned inside out on him every time. It was a
finer line than he knew how to tread, between stimulation and nausea, pleasure
and pain...
"Hey. Hey, Sumire." Renji. There was a hand shaking his shoulder, gingerly
because he was kneeling in front of a pool of vomit, and there was no point
getting closer than necessary. "Are you all right?"
Sumire nodded. Mopped his lips on the back of his hand again. "Yeah..." He felt
emptied out, strangely relaxed. Simple and clean is how you make me feel
tonight... "I'm hungry."
"Dude," said Renji with feeling. "That's fucking sick." He bent, making
something rustle, and ducked his head under Sumire's arm to help him up. "But
then again, so am I. C'mon—"
"'M okay," said Sumire quickly. Renji's hair was tickling his neck. He
disentangled himself, not glancing at the dark plastic garbage bag Renji was
dragging along the ground with his other hand, and bent to pick up his pipe.
"Denny's?"
Renji nodded. "Dude," he said again. "Hungry like the wolf. Let's get a move
on." He slung his arm around Sumire again, over his shoulders this time. The
contact was warm through both their windbreakers, and Sumire didn't shrug him
off.
**   **
                                   ** *** **
 
The thirty grand in crisp bills went toward rent. The loose coinage came to...
well, more than a dozen bottles of Dekavita C, anyhow. There was even change
left over for Pretz and ramen cups. All in all a good day.
Renji squeezed through the door with his load of ersatz groceries and found
Sumire in the exact same position as he'd left him, slumped down on the couch
as if he hadn't budged an inch in the interim. The TV input had been rewired to
the Super Famicon, though, and Sumire was levelling up one of Renji's old Final
Fantasy IV saves with the volume sky high. He looked intensely bored.
"Shit, that's retro," Renji said.
"Okaeri," Sumire muttered reflexively. Renji dropped his stuff off in the
kitchenette and unscrewed a bottle of Dekavita with his teeth (he was working
on using his forearm, but always managed to slop liquid on himself). He gulped
down the energy drink and wandered back to the sofa, ruffling his wall-mounted
trophy with his hand in passing. It was the only one he'd kept whole. The thing
had dried like that, no shedding or rotting, and now when you ran your finger
over the sawed-off edge the marrow yielded like porous white plastic.
Objectively speaking it was beautiful, and had been even more beautiful as part
of Sumire, but as such had served as a constant reminder of the hated Them. Got
on his nerves. Now Sumire had one, and he had one, and they were even. They had
been good friends before, but Sumire's hunting had – Renji felt – renewed their
relationship, and on the correct footing this time. He was glad he'd thought of
it.
Then again, live seventeen years and you were bound to come up with one great
idea sooner or later. Demonic DNA or not. It was a matter of odds.
"Budge," he said, and flung himself down in front of the TV, head on Sumire's
knees for support. Sumire made an annoyed sound, but twitched his controller
cable out of the way. From this angle his expression was violently
foreshortened, but Renji could tell he was drooling slightly. He pondered
briefly whether to point it out, and whether he risked being dripped on if he
didn't, but gave up the train of thought out of apathy. Instead he chewed Pretz
and watched Sumire tear through Mount Hobs.
"That guy's useless," he said after some minutes. "Why'd you put him in the
party?"
"He's just there," Sumire said. "And he's not totally useless. He heals." He
unleashed a round of multi-target ice spells on a flock of winged monsters.
"Fuck that. That's so gay."
The usual fanfare blared out perkily. Sumire glanced downward. "Look, I don't
have the white mage chick right now, okay? I mean, they have to give you some
way of healing your guys in battle, or you'd be screwed. You deal with it. It
doesn't matter if his stats are gay."
"That's not logical."
"Sure it's logical."
"No it isn't," said Renji. "It's a principle thing. It's like saying you might
as well do Karen fucking Juri. If, like, you didn't have a chick around right
now."
There was a pause while they considered this.
"Juri's not..." Sumire shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was backing himself
into an indefensible tactical position. "Juri's not. You know."
"Oh, fuck that."
"No, I mean... not gay like bard gay. Like, no one's. Really." Renji just
stared up at him, and Sumire sighed. "Okay, fine. Whatever." He turned his
attention back to the screen.
Renji snorted, but did not pursue the point. Sumire devoted himself to hunting
down treasure chests, the expression on his face indicating a determination to
ignore further heckling from the peanut gallery. A boss fight was picked, and
won. Renji finished his Pretz box and tossed it into a corner. He could feel
Sumire's warmth through his jeans – or possibly it was his own body heat. It
was hard to tell. He ran a finger down the outside seam of Sumire's left leg,
from knee to ankle, but Sumire didn't seem to feel it. He didn't even twitch.
More minutes passed.
Eventually they hit a story sequence. Sumire scrolled through with rapidity,
murmuring under his breath: "Yeah, yeah, crystals, whatever..." An evocative
symphonic piece began to play in MIDI.
"Mute it and put on some music," Renji said. "Some real music." Sumire didn't
move, so neither did he. "Couldn't you play something with, like, actual
blood?"
"I like this game," Sumire said. "What exactly is your problem anyway?"
Renji blinked, and digested this for a few seconds. "My problem...?" He jumped
up, tore the controller from Sumire's unprepared grasp, and drop-kicked it into
the wall. The game went felicitously to menu and stayed there. Renji swung a
knee onto the sofa and planted his hands with a thump in the cushions on either
side of Sumire's face. "You asshole," he said into Sumire's startled gaze.
"It's my game. My console. My apartment. You're bumming a futon and eating my
food, playing my games, in my apartment."
Sumire blinked once, one dark sweep of swallow-plume lashes. In a voice made
squeaky by indignation he said, "Yeah, but it's your fault I have to in the
first place, isn't it?"
Renji stared. (You mean, if you could...?) "Shut up," he said finally. And
then, because Sumire had taken a deep breath and was opening his mouth,
"No.Shut up." And leant forward and kissed him, hard.
Sumire made a surprised sound and – didn't struggle, exactly, but flinched and
tried to turn his head. A reflex. It dragged the soft inside of his lower lip
against the sharp edge of Renji's teeth, and suddenly Renji's mouth was filled
with this taste. It was like hitting a red wall, head-on, fast, and feeling it
give.
He would have cursed, if he hadn't been otherwise occupied. Maybe he tried, and
it came out as a moan. He couldn't hear himself.
After a minute Sumire pushed at his shoulders, not entirely gently, and broke
away just enough to make it impossible for Renji to continue sticking his
tongue down his throat. Renji groaned softly and buried his face in Sumire's
shoulder. His hands, he realised, were clenched on the couch fabric, tremors
running down his arms from the tension. He didn't want to make eye contact.
Zero to sixty like that: that was what Sumire did to him some days. That blood
had tasted far better than it should've. He didn't even know if it
was supposed to be good, or if it was just Sumire.
Times he could see where Iida Rui was coming from.
"Hey," Sumire said, softly. "Hey, guy..." Pause. Renji could hear him lick at
the cut in his lip, wanted to do it for him. Felt Sumire's wince in the tension
of his throat. "I'm sorry. Whatever it is. Okay?"
"Yeah," Renji mumbled. "Yeah, I'm sure you are..." Sumire's hand had come up
and was resting on the small of Renji's back, where his shirt had hitched up
over the waistband of his jeans. His fingers circled Renji's lumbar vertebrae
absently. Renji resisted the urge to arch into the touch. "Ah, hell. Sumire—"
"I've really got to go to the bathroom," Sumire said. Renji's head snapped up,
and he stared into Sumire's face. Then he was pushing off Sumire and stumbling
to his feet, almost before he had finished processing what he saw there. Sumire
had that look of startled thoughtfulness he invariably got the second before he
bent over and heaved over his own shoes, and Renji had timely avoidance down to
a Pavlovian reflex.
"Well, fuck then," he said when Sumire simply continued to sit there, gazing up
at him with that look. "Go!" And it was like this magic word. Sumire took off,
not quite at a run, not quite slamming the bathroom door behind him either.
Renji waited to hear retching, but there wasn't any. Just a lot of water
running. Renji had to pay for that water.
Maybe Sumire looked like that when he really needed to piss as well. Maybe...
whatever.
Renji left him to it and went for a walk. Just wandered around, circling
neighborhood ramen-ya and office buildings and the blind fenced-in sides of
residential houses. He didn't cross paths with anyone. After an hour or so it
began to rain again, a fine drizzle that darkened concrete and cooled the air.
Renji hadn't bothered with a windbreaker. He kept walking all the same. The
occasional car made a shimmering sound as it passed him by, and the smell of
exhaust would mingle with the wet. His hair got drenched through and started to
drip down the back of his shirt, a sensation that wasn't necessarily
unpleasant. He was overheated anyway, and didn't feel as if anything would cool
him down ever again.
Eventually he had to head for home. Sumire was asleep by the time he got back
to the apartment, sometime close to midnight. Renji stood in the doorway,
trickling water on the narrow strip of floor between carpet and lintel, and
stared. Sumire was sprawled over his unrolled futon, still mostly dressed
except for khakis and running shoes. He'd left the TV on, and the blue video
screen cast an unearthly light over his face. The curve of his mouth was
perfect.
People, real people as in human, might have said he looked like an angel. Renji
had no such bromide to fall back on.
Still he couldn't be bothered to lie: to say that They were never beautiful. It
was merely that Renji killed angels. Rui, too, killed angels... not because
they deserved it, as that would make them people, but because it was better to
be predator than prey. It wasn't murder, and it wasn't extermination. It was
hunting. Did the first human to bring down a cave lion in adrenalin and terror
claim the pelt as his prize? To keep himself warm? As proof it happened? Or
because swapping skins told him that his soul had been traded in as well?
You had to love them, to hunt them that way. Them. One of Them.
Whatever.
Renji toed off his shoes, squished wetly across the carpet and turned off the
TV. Then he turned on the ceiling lights.
**   **
                                   ** *** **
 
Sumire was dreaming about flying. It didn't fill him with a sense of nostalgia
or loss or soaring joy; that wasn't the way he'd felt about it in the first
place. Rather it was body-memory, and dream-practicality. He figured he had
about a couple more Ice2s in him, and the rocs were way up there, so way up was
where he needed to be as well. And once he'd thought it, that's where he was.
(It used to be like that too, awake—)
Beside him Juri gathered himself in answer and launched into the air,
resplendent in jet-black armour. Higher than Sumire. "Get the hell back here!"
Sumire yelled, squinting upward. Juri's trajectory had been that of an arrow
shot into the sky, and it made him dizzy to follow with his gaze.
"Nonsense," Juri called back. He was too far, but Sumire could see him clearly,
down to the scalloped edge of the spear he gripped in his hands. Violet hair
flowed from under his helmet, streamed in the wind like a banner – that was
wrong, for reasons he couldn't quite muster, but at least it looked right. "I
have to be higher up than you, or I won't be able to skip this turn. Why the
hell are you in the air, anyway? Only one of us is supposed to be able to fly."
"I," said Sumire indignantly, but the sky went dark and Juri smiled and
something pressed down on him, an insurmountable force, and he fell. The ground
rushed upward to meet him; it expanded, whirling madly, filling his vision. He—
(landed)
—jolted awake, eyes flying open. He was in his own futon, and Renji
was sitting on him, straddling his stomach with an intent expression on his
face. He was soaking wet. Blond hair fell in water-darkened strands and dripped
on Sumire's throat, on his face. It was cold, like rain, and Sumire shivered.
"Renji?" he ventured. And, when that elicited less of a response than could
reasonably have been desired, "Renji – what the fuck?"
"Do you need to go to the bathroom again?" Renji said.
Sumire stared up. He was getting damper and damper, as more of Renji's water
transferred itself to the bed. It woke him up, though, and he thought he had a
good handle on what this was about.
"No," he said. "No... I'm okay."
"Good," Renji said. He leant down and kissed Sumire again. Slower than the
first time, but without giving the remotest impression of negociability.
Sumire let his eyes slide half-shut, experimentally. Renji tilted his head a
little, deepening the kiss – slipping his tongue into Sumire's mouth. It was...
sexy, yes, a lot more so now that he'd had time to go over recent events in his
head, but it didn't relax him. It made his heart pound and his stomach churn.
The latter especially was a bad sign.
He was itching too, in the unreachable place behind his lungs, beneath his
heart. He ignored it for the moment and plucked at the hem of Renji's
sweatshirt, sliding his hands underneath the waterlogged fabric. Kept them
there as Renji pressed closer and nipped at his lips; palms flat against
Renji's ribs, until the clamminess went away and he could feel the warmth
radiating from the other boy's body again. Renji was always a little warmer
than Sumire, and if he wasn't careful his skin smelt of sulfur.
He was always careful, even around Sumire. Especially around him, actually,
because Sumire was sensitive. It got everywhere, that smell.
"You wanna take this off?" Sumire said as soon as he had the chance. "It's
getting water all over the place." Renji narrowed his eyes at him, frowning
like Sumire'd made an unreasonable request instead of stating a foregone
conclusion, but sat back on his heels and pulled the sweatshirt over his head.
More water droplets went flying. Sumire ran his hands down the sides of Renji's
jeans and found that they were in no better shape. He reached for the top
button of the fly, and Renji caught his hands before they'd quite gotten there,
in a grip that was tight enough to hurt. They stared at each other.
"What," Sumire whispered finally. "Well, what?" And Renji let him go,
reluctantly, fingers slipping over his. Sumire fumbled with the button, trying
to get the sodden denim to cooperate. Renji didn't move, didn't look down, just
watched his face. It made Sumire want to close his eyes.
He did, finally, when he got hold of the zipper tag and pulled. The sound
seemed very loud.
After that it went by touch. Looking would have been useless from his angle
anyway, unless he wanted to add a hellish crick in the neck to his problems. He
worked his hand under the elastic waistband of Renji's boxers.
"Oh, fuck," Renji said when Sumire first got hold of his cock properly, having
had to push his underwear down halfway in the interim. Something like that,
anyway: it wasn't a word, just a semblance of one that died away into a long
shuddery exhalation. He was shaking, a minute tremor Sumire could feel through
the warmth of where their hips pressed against each other. His hands clenched
and unclenched on Sumire's shirt where it was bunched up over his bared
stomach. Sumire bit his lip and tried to concentrate on what he was doing, as
opposed to thinking about it. The position was wrong; the damp heat of Renji's
skin distracting, nothing like touching himself. And Renji was rocking back
against the motion of his hand, sharp jerky movements and bottom lip caught
between his teeth, like he didn't think Sumire was going fast enough. It was
giving Sumire a hard-on out of pure empathy.
"Stop," Renji gritted out. "Fuck, Sumire, stop it, now."
Sumire blinked. He became aware that he was breathing fast.
"What...?" He tried to slide his hand around and over, and the elastic snapped
in a way that must have stung, because Renji made a strange sound and grabbed
hold of his wrist.
"You moron," he said through his teeth, "you're going to make me come on you.
If you do that."
Sumire stared, flabbergasted. Renji twitched.
"Oh, for fuck's sake—"
Sumire let go. Renji lowered himself to his elbows, damp blond strands ticklish
like cornsilk over Sumire's face, and kissed him again. This time it was
rougher, more demanding if that were at all possible. Sumire's eyes slid shut
again, the world narrowing down to the one inchoate sensation. He felt flushed
all over, like abnormal body temperature was contagious. Renji touched him,
greedy caresses with his hands and his mouth, and when his hand slipped between
Sumire's legs Sumire dug his fingers absently into the angles of Renji's hip.
He didn't even flinch when Renji's teeth caught on his inner lip again; just a
flash of red, that came in his mind and went.
This was all more or less typical of Renji's ideas, he thought. Such ideas as
Sumire would never in a million years have entertained of his own volition,
that drew him – exhilarated and sometimes sickened – in Renji's wake. And it
was always brillant, afterward, because Renji was there.
He'd learnt to trust to it, after the first few times.
"Take these off," Renji was mumbling against the corner of his mouth. Hands
shoved his boxers down, curving roughly under his ass. "Fuck. Get'em off..."
Sumire wiggled compliantly, lifting his hips off the futon. Renji shifted
position so that he was half-kneeling between Sumire's legs, his entire weight
more or less on Sumire, pressed up close in a way that made it hard to breathe
and harder to think. Denim tangled between their bodies, damp and abrasive, and
Sumire drew his knees up reflexively so he could hook his feet into the top of
Renji's jeans and push them down that way. Renji shifted against him in feline
approval.
"Sumire-chan," he said, breath warm and cool at once against damp skin. "Hey,
could..." His words trailed off, and he bit Sumire's collarbone, following the
scrape of over-sharp teeth with a slow savouring lick. Blood there too,
perhaps. His hands were sliding down – up – Sumire's thighs, toward the back of
his knees.
"Just do it," Sumire whispered. He wanted badly for it to be done, now, because
of the itch that was slowly spreading downward within the confines of his
ribcage – tasting Renji in his mouth made it worse – and because he badly
wanted to do it, period. It wasn't exclusively about getting Renji off anymore.
"Just... whatever you want, okay? Whatever."
"I want you," Renji said. "Are you okay?" And that almost made Sumire laugh,
because he hadn't asked when he cut off Sumire's wing. Never even thought about
it, probably. And that was all right too.
"Sure," he said. "Sure, I'm fine—" Then he had to hold on as Renji pressed up
against him and into him, making a tiny lost sound, because in his body-
arrogance born and bred he'd never considered the possibility of pain.
Pain.
Renji for that too. No one else.
It died away quickly, just like the last time, and when he came back to himself
Renji was holding him close, languidly rocking his hips. He was inside all the
way. Sumire shifted involuntarily, and gasped.
"Still okay?" Renji said against his ear. There was no break in the slow –
maddeningly slow – rhythm, but Sumire could hear the tautness in his voice. He
nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"All right then," Renji said. He pulled out a little further, and the next
thrust in was harder, the angle different. It made a shock of sensation run up
Sumire's spine, and he moaned softly, hands tightening on Renji's shoulders.
"Renji—"
"Right there," Renji whispered, a thread of hissing triumph in the words. "Like
that—" And he did it again. And again; each time harder, until he was pressing
Sumire back into the futon and fucking him with short rough strokes, slamming
into him like he couldn't control it anymore and didn't care. It hurt, but it
felt good too – like feeling good was something you could die from – and Sumire
didn't want it to stop. He bit his wrist, trying not to scream.
"Sumire," Renji said, his voice ragged. "Sumire," and then something else, but
it didn't matter anymore because something tightly wound within Sumire was
expanding, fighting for space, pressing outward until he thought he'd be torn
apart. He grabbed for Renji desperately, lifting himself off the futon as his
wings unfurled with explosive force: one whole and one broken.
He thought he did scream then, as he came, but he couldn't tell anymore.
**   **
                                   ** *** **
 
When Sumire opened his eyes he was lying near-prone, wing stub digging
uncomfortably into the futon and Renji a dead weight draped over his side.
There was black fluff everywhere.
"Ugh," Sumire said, and began coughing spasmodically. Choked, flailed around,
curled into a ball and kept coughing. Renji scrambled away, alarmed.
"Sumire? What the—"
"Bathroom," Sumire mumbled, and ran for it. Hobbled, rather, intact wing
dragging behind. It was really something of a pain.
Renji was waiting when he got out a good twenty minutes later, sitting cross-
legged on his own futon wearing nothing much more than a glare.
"The fuck," he said. "Should I even ask?"
"It's..." There was nothing for it. "It's sort of an allergic reaction. I
think. Like cat hair."
"Cat—"
"Well, cat saliva. 'Cos it's actually, y'know, because cats lick themselves, so
there's saliva on their fur. Body fluids. And, um, yeah." Sumire shrugged.
"Demons."
"You mean—" Renji's mouth worked. "You—" He pointed at Sumire, then pointed at
himself. Sumire nodded. "Well, fuck you to you too, then."
"It's not as if I can help it," Sumire said, injured. Renji glared at him for a
moment longer, then threw himself down on the futon with a dull thump. He
tugged the quilt up from the side of the mattress and buried himself in it,
facing away from Sumire.
"I'm going to sleep," he said.
"No you're not," Sumire said. There was no response. "Fuck you, Renji, you got
water all over my bed."
No response to that either. Sumire stared for a few seconds at the blond hair
that peeped out from the top of the quilt, and went to turn off the light. Then
he came back and sat on the side of Renji's futon to pull his shirt and boxers
back on.
"Budge," he said. There was a silence, then a rustling as Renji shifted a few
inches, then silence again. Sumire curled up on the exposed side of the futon,
back to back with Renji – back to quilt, really – and closed his eyes. He felt
much too drained to give a damn about anything.
He'd dozed off completely when something warm and heavy dropped over him,
muffling him from head to toe. He flailed sleepily for air, mumbling.
"...The hell?"
An arm encircled his waist and pulled him against a fever-warm body. "Is this
okay?" Renji said, his breath ticklish against the back of Sumire's neck. "This
won't make you break out in fucking hives or anything?"
"What...?" Sumire cracked his eyes open, saw nothing for the darkness and
closed them again. Renji, he thought. Quilt. Warm. Right. "...No, 's 'kay."
"Good," Renji said, and pressed close until he was nuzzling into Sumire's
hairline. Sumire thought of telling him that tickled and to cut it out, but
fell asleep before the words made it halfway out of his mouth.
**   **
                                   ** *** **
 
Amazingly they didn't miss morning class the next day. It was the sun; they
hadn't closed the curtains for a week, it was impossible to sleep with light
flooding the room like that. And Sumire's futon was still a mess.
Rain never came in handy where it counted.
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