Afterlife (oneshot, Koyama/NEWS)
The room is dark, the only source of light being the lamp standing in the corner of a spacious, luxury apartment. The temperature is rather low - coldness guaranteed thanks to the big, opened window, but nobody out of the two present people seem to mind, or even notice it. They’re not able to - but really, who would be in their situation - their minds and bodies preoccupied with something completely different than temperatures and weather conditions. None of these are important, when two bodies are grinding against each other, young flesh sweaty and shining, and irresistible for the other one to touch, to taste, to take out of it everything they can.
And they do - the man laying on a bed touching the other one, caressing his skin, nails scraping along the skin on his back, while the second one’s riding him, his hips moving quickly and frantically, because he’s close, he’s so unbelievably close he’s lost in his own world, making the one beneath him to lose his mind too, to lose his consciousness and awareness of the reality. And when he’s right there, orgasm hitting him with an incredible force, the back arching and face grimacing at the hard impact of pleasure, the man above him does the only one thing he feels is right. The one he believes is the cherry on top of the pie, the completion of the perfect, sexual act.
The blood on Koyama’s hands, vivid in the specific, moody lighting, has never been that beautiful.
The look at Masuda’s young, handsome face has never been so peaceful, happy and contented.
And the orgasm that Koyama rides out, being in the middle of perfect, bloody mess, is one of the most powerful in his entire life.
*
Koyama isn’t sure what is the purpose of his life. Theoretically, being in the middle of his twenties, he has many years to cherish his days, to discover new things and places, to meet people and to learn more and more things. He has good looks and equally good brains, he’s handsome, witty, intelligent and his face screams that he’s the man who deserves bigger attention. He’s not exactly special or outstanding in any way, but he’s definitely in the higher rank of Japan’s concept of “standard”.
Maybe he’d use it for his owns advantages, life-aims and whatnots, but the day the world killed him - marked him with a thick, red line in the official papers, assuming he was somewhere at the time the certain place exploded, sweeping everything and everyone out of the earth in the closest area - he stopped believing in the sense of living.
It’s not like he wanted to be found dead. He had his whole life ahead of him. He hadn’t done even half of the things he had been planning to do, he hadn’t been truly happy and he hadn’t felt any bigger satisfaction out of his achievements. But it’s just that everybody decided he is dead, not caring about any investigations, about looking for him, about the fact that at that time, Koyama simply took a small vacations from everything and everyone - and the only thing he could do, the only thing his mind told him was okay to do - was to actually die. Die to those people and to that world, just like everyone around had seemed to want him to be. And so he did.
Koyama Keiichiro’s existence was proved deceased two years ago, and for two years already, every day from his non-life, is like he’s starting and ending something new and fresh, as a completely different person who’s been given birth and death through the same twenty-four hours.
*
Koyama doesn’t know who Yamapi is. All he knows is his name - or rather nickname - his profession (although he’s aware of the fact that he might’ve lied to him just like Koyama himself had) and that his wallet is thick thanks to the countless banknotes and credit cards stuffed inside.
But really, it’s not like he’s supposed to know anything more. They’re just strangers, who met by sheer chance in the lousy pub in Nagoya. Koyama was a regular by now - two months of visiting the same local is something, after all - and apparently Yamapi was too, always a bit sad, maybe bored - and it was just the matter of time when they started some disobliging, half-drunken talk, leading to what Koyama knows all too well. A few nights, a few drinks, a few touches - and two people stumbling on their way to the bathroom, closing the door of the cabin with a loud thwack.
And Koyama swear he didn’t plan this. Not this time. But he can’t say no to such an opportunity.
Yamapi’s kind of irresistible. His lips are nothing but kissable, his eyes are hypnotizing, and his hands are warm and welcoming, encouraging to all those dirty acts Koyama is so familiar with. Maybe that’s why they are complementing each other, wanting the same thing, the only difference being Koyama’s intentions, not quite as Yamapi would imagine them to be.
But it’s not important there, not when Yamapi is holding him firmly against the wall of the small toilet cabin, fingers almost crushing Koyama’s wrists in that strong grip and mouth bruising his lips in a forceful kiss, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin and the tip of tongue dipping inside the small, fresh wound. All of these actions - forceful, confident, not holding any doubts behind - they are very Yamapi, just one hundred percent of him, and nothing less than that. And Koyama likes that, he likes seeing his true self, not limited by the real world’s restrictions, by people’s beliefs, by his own psychic barriers. He likes seeing - feeling - the raw emotions, radiating from him like crazy, one by one, making his head spin and mind go blank in that blissful awareness of self-satisfaction.
Koyama gives in to whatever Yamapi wants him to do - he moans shamelessly when Yamapi’s marking him with the next wet bites, soon turning into the mass of reddish spots all over the slightly tanned skin. He grinds his hips against Yamapi’s when he feels the increasing pressure. He dips his slender hand inside his tight jeans, fingers quickly finding his already hard cock, all too worked up, the friction clearly doing miracles to his senses. He strokes it a few times, thumb brushing over the head, index finger tracing path along the thick vein; but it ends as soon as it started, Koyama giving Yamapi a pointed look, telling him more than any words could say.
They both know what are the rules of this game - it’s obvious for them it’s not their first time, and there is no place for any kind of unrequited selfishness. Yamapi shoving Koyama is just the matter of time, the older man stumbling back barely two steps and falling down on the lavatory pan, cold ceramic contrasting with Koyama’s hot skin almost painfully. Small smirk lifts up the corners of his lips when Yamapi is soon following him by kneeling down on the not really clean floor, parting his legs with a powerful movement and sliding his pants down just enough to free his erection from the small prison of thick, tight material. And the feeling when Yamapi takes him in his mouth, those full lips closing around him and tongue finding its place right there, under the head - it’s such a heavenly sensation, that Koyama’s not even sure if there exist proper words to describe how he feels like.
Long, smooth fingers are soon tangled in deep-brown hair, smooth as silk and in perfect length just to tighten the grip on them and pull, make him look up, make him open his mouth wider, together with his deep eyes, make him see what a mess he makes out of Koyama with his doings. Make him feel satisfied with himself, what is probably the first time in ages - Koyama can see it in his eyes, in the way his lips twitch, how he hollows his cheeks more, putting extra care in taking him right to the heaven - or hell maybe - with that mouth and tongue of his.
Koyama doesn’t say anything, none of those dirty words he’s already used to tell his lovers, no praising for skills, for body, for anything they have and give him. There is no need for this, not between them - because Yamapi knows, he feels it in everything Koyama does, in every little shift, in even the smallest moan, in hands gripping and leading his head. And it takes just a little while more until Koyama comes, all his actions reaching its climax - back arching in a perfect bow, low moan spilling out of his mouth, hot release hitting the back of the other’s throat, and hands clenching and twisting his head so tightly, so forcefully, using so much strength of Koyama’s trained muscles and knowledge taught many years ago, it’s in no time when the bones of Yamapi’s neck crack, instantly sending him to the floor, body scattered on the dirty tiles like a rag doll.
Staring at the perfect body and the face, which is like a reflection of satisfaction and pride, Koyama decides it’s the rightest time to drink the last booze in that lousy local and leave Nagoya, moving on to the next place, to become a whole new, different person.
*
When Koyama, each and every day, rides what is probably the least popular subway line around Osaka’s area, it’s not because he has to. He doesn’t work or live anywhere near any of the stations the subway stops at, letting the very few people in and out of the carriage. He also has nobody to see, he doesn’t have any appointments and he’s not visiting any relatives or friends.
His only purpose is to meet - or rather observe - the one person that interests him strong enough to bother with all that long, fairly pointless ride.
Said man looks like he’s somewhere in the middle of his twenties, his appearance still fresh and young, but visibly grown-up, just enough to be considered as an evidently matured person’s feature. He’s not tall, and Koyama’s sure he’d smoothly find a few, even Japanese women, who are higher than him - but it doesn’t really means anything, as his manly attributes are easily making up for the loss of height.
Every evening he sees him on a subway, he’s wearing a grey suit with a snow-white shirt of which a few upper buttons are popped open, revealing some tanned skin from under the loosened tie. Koyama assumes he’s working in some kind of an office - businessman or just regular salaryman? - boring stuff that completely don’t match his young looks, his tanned skin, his sparkling eyes and phones plugged inside his ears. But that’s how people ends up these days, all wrapped up in everyday life, in routines, forgetting their lives and themselves.
And Koyama hates that, thinking it’s good he’s dead to the world. Because he wouldn’t like to really exist in the world which works like that.
For the past three weeks, all Koyama has been doing was riding the train, getting off on the same station as the object of his interest, making a small route around the area and then going back to home with the next train. Nothing much, anything that obvious - to the man Koyama’s probably just another stranger he meets during his usual rides. Maybe only a little bit more friendly - with the small smiles they’re exchanging, and in the third week even a barely noticeable, polite nods of heads.
It’s after exactly one month since the first time Koyama sees him, that he decides to transform his thoughts, plans, fantasies, into the actual actions. Everything’s almost as always - the small nod and short smile, a few quick glances throughout the boring, one hour long ride, the rustling of coats and knocking of formal shoes on the hard surface of train’s floor while the man, together with Koyama and one other businessman, gets up and moves towards the door. But this time, seeing the stranger going in steady pace in the same direction as always, Koyama doesn’t turn back and doesn’t take a stroll around the neighbourhood. Instead, he just starts following him, the rather small silhouette barely visible on the dark street with only a few streetlamps still working. His movements aren’t all that silent and careful - he’s just walking, a few steps behind him, not really caring if he notices his presence or not. Honestly, he hopes he will - it’d just mean less trouble to take care of, no sudden screams, no fighting against possible danger, no dealing with struggling body which doesn’t seem all that weak despite the lack of height.
It’s because of - or more likely thanks to - the small can kicked accidentally by Koyama, that the stranger finally acknowledges him. He turns back abruptly, looking somewhere between scared and ready to fight, and it amuses Koyama. The way people react to his all doings and actions, it’s always a great amusement.
Koyama doesn’t waste time or energy for waiting or explaining - once he’s sure the man recognizes him, he takes two long, quick steps towards him, grasps his hand and pulls him, strongly and resolutely, dragging him into the dark side-alley.
He lefts no time or space for any questions which the man, whose back hits the brick wall, would surely like to ask - the two pairs of lips crashing together in a hard, sharp kiss don’t allow anything more than a few wet sounds and a little bit of a moaning on the both sides, be it because of the thrill, or surprise, or whatever the stranger feels and thinks about when he’s receiving the next fierce kisses.
Koyama’s hands are slender, and his fingers long and agile, exploring the warm body beneath white shirt in no time, not really acknowledging any protests if the other one makes any of them. But soon it comes out he’s most surely not, when his own hands find their place on Koyama’s arms, tracing fingertips on the skin behind the collar of his deep-red shirt, caressing the nape of his neck and pulling on the short hair there, while responding to whatever heaven Koyama’s tongue is making inside of his mouth.
“Your name,” Koyama breaths out, the tip of tongue tracing the path over the edge of the man’s ear, making him shiver and whine softly.
“Ryo,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, and a little bit out of its own range when strong hands fall down on his belt, opening the buckle in no time.
“Ryo,” Koyama repeats, leaving small kisses along the line of his jaw. “Ryo is a nice name,” he adds, pushing a hand inside the other’s pants and wrapping fingers around the hardened erection. It brings the low, long moan out of Ryo’s mouth, and it’s like a melody to Koyama’s ears, a pleasure as strong as the one he feels while watching him - his lips swollen from hard kisses and slightly parted, hair in complete mess, eyes only half-opened, glassy and distracted.
“Say, Ryo,” Koyama starts, moving his hand lazily after letting the pants move lower and settle on Ryo’s hips, enough to give Koyama full access to his cock, but not enough to bare him completely. “Isn’t an overwhelming pleasure something you would like to receive at the end of a slow, boring and exhausting day in work? Wouldn’t you like to forget about everything, to live only for the slowly building up tension? To give yourself up to someone, not caring about consequences, about future, about reality?” he asks, and those questions are alluring, hypnotising, making him numb, and senseless, and unconscious about everything and everyone around. Ryo’s mind is fogged by the pleasure, by Koyama’s hand doing miracles to his arousal - warm hand wrapped around the shaft, thumb brushing over the head and nail teasing the slit - and he’s not thinking properly when he nods his head. And there are numberless pleas, and whines, and moans escaping his mouth, like his life’s depending on it, on him, on this situation.
And maybe it is, when Koyama sneaks his other hand around Ryo’s neck, soon closing it over his throat - maybe it is, but it’s a lose-lose situation, when he can’t really react, he doesn’t even notice this in fact, so absorbed in the pleasure, in Koyama’s voice, in captivating kisses distracting him from acknowledging the world around him. When he starts to loose his breath, when it’s harder and harder to catch the air - he blames his orgasm for this, the blood running wild in his veins and the pressure reaching the state it’s nothing but inhuman. And when he can’t breath anymore - it’s too late already, his body confronting with the spasms of orgasm, unable to defend itself in any possible way, the last thing he concentrates on is the hard, life-taking kiss.
Koyama thinks the body, laying lifelessly on the cold, wet ground, is beautiful. Peaceful and contented, wrapped up in the embrace of pleasure and comfort that makes him look like he lived a happy, satisfied life.
*
Tegoshi is that kind of guy, who is extremely easy to make friends with. He’s cheerful, bouncy and light-hearted, always up and ready for going out after work or doing something silly. It’s like he’s a complete opposition of the gloomy, autumn weather, and Koyama appreciates his company right from the first they he meets him.
However, soon he finds out that nothing’s as simple as it seems to be. After some time of observing him - and Koyama is really good in observing and analyzing people - he can see things that most of his friends, colleagues and people he meets randomly everyday, simply don’t notice. It’s all about small gestures - like dark looks throwing at people and things, barely visible smirks, tension he relieves only when he thinks nobody sees him. But he’s mistaken, because ever since he met Koyama, he can’t really hide everything, not before him.
It’s in the deep night, Tegoshi stumbling with Koyama on the way inside his apartment, both a little drunken, but still conscious, when they find out that little, soon turning into important, thing about themselves. It’s really ordinary situation, Tegoshi tripping over the thin air and falling back, pulling Koyama, who has no strength to support them both, with him. There is a big thud, and a moan, and a position they end in, a little more than awkward, Koyama between Tegoshi’s legs, with his elbow hitting his abdomen, causing him pain, but not really.
The thing that Tegoshi does is probably a mixture of alcohol and anger, suppressed for way too long - his surprisingly strong hands pulls Koyama closer, not minding the elbow digging into his stomach, making him breathless together with the weight falling down on him completely; but he doesn’t seem to mind, quite the opposite, he looks like he enjoys the feeling. And Koyama doesn’t argue with any of his both verbal and non-verbal wishes.
It’s in one single blink of an eye, clothes falling down on the soft carpet and backs hitting the next walls over and over again, rooms filled with wet sounds and groans, and dirty talk, and countless fucks, this word being the best definition for what’s going on in Tegoshi’s apartment. Because it’s all wild and animal, instincts taking them over - Koyama’s dominant side leaving no room for the sweet, good guy, and Tegoshi’s anger and irritation floating out of him, making his submissive position all sharp and gallant.
For Koyama’s slaps, he replies with bites.
Answering to his orders, he does the complete opposite, provoking him for more violent actions, for more resolution, for putting more strength in scolding him.
It’s all about fight, about things Tegoshi knows he can’t do in everyday life, having to adjust to the rules of society. He gives up on being himself for the sake of acceptation, and Koyama understands that, being glad he can do something to ease this pain, to let him be how he is, to relieve whatever it troubles him, in any way he wants to do it.
So he doesn’t hold back, when he has to slap him. He’s not trying to control the urge to bite him, to scratch that perfect skin of his, to leave marks all over him. Koyama doesn’t stop even when he hears pleas, when Tegoshi chokes on his own words after being knocked down and turned over, Koyama paying no attention to the pain he’s causing him with fucking him senseless, like a rag doll, like someone who isn’t human, who doesn’t deserve being given any feelings.
Of course, he doesn’t think that. But he knows what Tegoshi wants, and he’s willing to give it to him, to make him happy, to leave him without regrets. And when he reaches for the only one part of clothing left on Tegoshi, his red tie hanging loosely around his neck, he’s not really thinking anything. There are no thoughts, no regrets, no pros and cons when the knot tightens under the pressure of Koyama’s pull. It’s only him and Tegoshi, the younger man slowly drifting off, his hands giving up and head diving lifelessly into the soft pillow, and Koyama releasing his grip on the silk material right after that, releasing into the tight body while watching the peaceful face.
Tegoshi looks angelic, his features partially hidden behind the light-brown locks, skin sweaty and as perfect as ever. It’s the first time Koyama sees the real satisfaction on his face.
*
When he meets Shige, it’s by sheer chance.
Going back to Tokyo after three years is a sudden, unconsidered decision - he’s thinking about it one second, and the next he’s already there, stepping out of the train on the platform. Strolling through the busy city, Koyama admits he missed this - the rush, masses of people, combination of almost blinding, colourful lights all around him. In the past years he has visited many places, but he couldn’t think of the second one as lively and pompous as Tokyo.
He comes by many of those places he has some memories with - and really, it’s not like he wants to remember. Because of his many feelings, of emotions not leaving him and taking over his mind, and heart, and soul, and everything, he got rid of any sentiments - and he thought he did it successfully, preventing them from coming back; but now they’re here, right next to him, accompanying him with every next step, with every next breath. The places he used to go to with his friends, the shop he remembers buying presents for his mother, his university he liked so much. And there is even that park - rather small area between two different housing estates, full of greenery, relatively young trees and a playground in the middle, usually full of playing kids, but now quiet and empty, only one person - who definitely has his childhood behind him already - sitting on a see-saw, swinging lightly back and forth.
And the moment Koyama comes up closer and sees the man’s features, is when his heart skips a beat and the sudden flood of almost unbearable heat rushes over his whole body.
He knows he should just turn back on the balls of his foots and go away as soon and fast as possible. But somehow, he finds himself unable to do so, feeling as if the ground’s eating him up, holding him in place and not allowing to go away. And so he stands there, in the shadow of one of the big trees, observing the man who once was his best friend, but also an object of his uncontrollable desire and love.
It’s somewhat hard for Koyama to look at him. His whole silhouette is bend down, arms slouched and head held low, and he’s like a living exhibit of despair and sadness. Of course, he could be just tired, or troubled, or simply lost in his thoughts - but Koyama had known him for years, and even though he hasn’t seen him in such a long time, he still can sense what his mood is and if there is something wrong with him. And now, and there, he’s most definitely not okay.
Koyama has the moment of his own, private breakdown now; one side of his heart and mind wants to approach him, embrace and tell it’s going to be - whatever it is - okay, because he’s there now, for him, to listen and to ease his pain. But the other one stops him successfully from doing so, reminding him how easily he gave up on finding out if Koyama really died in that explosion, how quickly he got used to lack of Koyama’s presence. Something inside Koyama’s head screams it’s good Shige is suffering now, that he deserves this for all the things Koyama had to go through - but then there is another scream, the one that tells him to look at Shige, to see how miserable he is, asking if it’s really okay to leave like that someone, whom he loves.
That inner quarrel makes him feel dizzy and nauseous, dull ache hitting him with an incredible force and making it unable to move, to see, to hear. That’s why he doesn’t notice Shige getting up and walking away in the direction of blocks of flats, the younger man never acknowledging Koyama’s presence.
Koyama stays there for what feels like days and nights, but it’s barely two hours, when he’s finally able to move and take in his surroundings. It’s almost like he’s being born again, without those voices and without uncertainty washing away his personality - though not without fears which make him tremble only thinking about what he put himself into by coming back to Tokyo. And he knows there is no coming back, not when his legs move on its own, leading him towards the one building he knows the way to all too well, crossing it many times during both the day and night, for as many purposes as one could possibly think of.
Knocking over the hard surface of wooden door is fast and intensive, Koyama’s knuckles soon turning red and swollen when he’s waiting longer than he’d like to. But it takes just a few short moments more for the door to click and fall open, revealing Shige’s disoriented face, probably wondering who is visiting him in such late hours.
What Koyama sees next is something he has never encountered ever before - thousands, millions even, of emotions crossing over the same face, one fading into another and then coming back, like in a mad kaleidoscope that makes you go blind and crazy because of the variety of colours, shapes and patterns.
Koyama thinks the raw emotions visible all over Shige knocks him out once again, and he forgets what it means to be rational, and how to breath, to think, to speak - all he can do is take two small steps further, arms finding their place around Shige’s ones, mouth smashing against his lips in a weird imitation of what could be the kiss, door falling closed behind them. Koyama can feel Shige tensing under his touch, still as confused as seconds ago, if not even more, but it’s not important, not now and not ever, when Koyama feels like he’s drugged, like he’s happy.
But the happiness - or what he imagines to be happiness - is soon broken down, by Shige wriggling out of his hold, by his hands laid on his arms and shoving him back - just a few centimetres, but even such a small distance, in this moment, is like an incredible loss for Koyama.
“Koyama,” Shige breaths then, and Koyama’s eyelids fall down for one second, delighted in how his voice sounds, how good his name rolls off his tongue. “Koyama,” he repeats, like he wants to convince himself it’s really him, standing right there, lively and healthy, like there was no explosion, and death, and funeral.
And Koyama nods a few times, wanting Shige to believe, to see and to feel, just like he does in this moment, “Yes. Gods, Shige, yes. It’s me.”
The words escape his mouth, and the moment they do, Shige’s pulling him back, so close it’s almost impossible - but they feel it, both of them, and there is no way for this to not be true. It’s in their breaths and clenched eyelids, in the kiss Koyama gives him, and in the one Shige accepts and returns. It’s in all of their touches, hands cupping cheeks and fingers tracing patterns over arms, and fingertips exploring the warm skin beneath their clothes; it’s in every gesture and in every action, and there is no stop for that, because it’s like a tremendous avalanche.
It’s somewhere between one and another kiss, when Shige holds Koyama’s head in place, their foreheads touching and lips millimetres away when he speaks, “I have no idea if this is real,” he says, and his voice is very small, just enough to be heard, even though they’re both sure they would understand each other even without usage of words. “I have no idea, because I’ve been imagining this, you, so many times already, that I’m not sure if it’s not just the next hallucination. But you know what, I don’t care. I don’t care as long as I can feel you.”
And it gets to Koyama, those words and the honesty he can hear in them. In this one moment he doesn’t concentrate on his sorrows, instead of it just taking what he can, enjoying this as much as it’s possible, making it the best night he had in years.
It’s all intensity and passion, closed in wild frame of raw emotions reflected in actions; their hands are trembling and their lips are everywhere in fear to not miss something important, something they’ve already missed and neglected before. Fingers clenching around white sheets on Shige’s bed, legs wrapping around hips, tingles of pain mixed with waves of pleasure - it’s all in them, with them, on them, so vivid and real it hurts, but the agony isn’t really discomforting. They welcome it with small smiles and low groans, and with sweaty foreheads, and with sound of wet skin slapping against skin when they can’t wait anymore, not now and not ever.
Koyama calls out Shige’s name, and he doesn’t really know why - because the view of the most important person in his life, leaning over him, his face contorted in pleasure, is just beautiful and breathtaking - but there is this irrational fear in him, the one that comes out after the small voice in his head takes the lead once again, making him shiver and trash on bed like he wants to tell it to go away, to leave him alone.
And so he tries again, and again, wanting Shige to look at him, to see through him, to ease his pain, and his fears, and make it be okay, because it’s the first time in years Koyama believes - wants to believe - Shige can do it just well.
“Shige,” Koyama whines when he reaches out his arms, hands laid flatly on Shige’s sweaty back, pulling him down into a hug Shige doesn’t resist to. “I’ve been killing people, Shige,” Koyama breaths in his ear, voice hoarse and trembling, be it the pleasure or something completely else, his hands gripping Shige’s shoulders as if he’s going to sink without him.
“What are you-what are you talking about,” Shige replies, breathless, lips mouthing the salty skin on his neck and hips never slowing it’s pace, never stopping, the daze being too strong, too forceful to oppose.
It takes a few moments, three thrusts and a single moan for Koyama to reply with his throat jammed, “I’ll have to kill you too,” he adds in the end, and it’s with the fear in his voice, like he doesn’t really want to do it, like he’s afraid, for the first time in over two years.
But Shige laughs at that, oblivious to his fears, to trembling hands, too wrapped up in that delightful pleasure, exactly the same one that killed all of Koyama’s previous lovers.
And he never believes Koyama’s words.
And they do - the man laying on a bed touching the other one, caressing his skin, nails scraping along the skin on his back, while the second one’s riding him, his hips moving quickly and frantically, because he’s close, he’s so unbelievably close he’s lost in his own world, making the one beneath him to lose his mind too, to lose his consciousness and awareness of the reality. And when he’s right there, orgasm hitting him with an incredible force, the back arching and face grimacing at the hard impact of pleasure, the man above him does the only one thing he feels is right. The one he believes is the cherry on top of the pie, the completion of the perfect, sexual act.
The blood on Koyama’s hands, vivid in the specific, moody lighting, has never been that beautiful.
The look at Masuda’s young, handsome face has never been so peaceful, happy and contented.
And the orgasm that Koyama rides out, being in the middle of perfect, bloody mess, is one of the most powerful in his entire life.
*
Koyama isn’t sure what is the purpose of his life. Theoretically, being in the middle of his twenties, he has many years to cherish his days, to discover new things and places, to meet people and to learn more and more things. He has good looks and equally good brains, he’s handsome, witty, intelligent and his face screams that he’s the man who deserves bigger attention. He’s not exactly special or outstanding in any way, but he’s definitely in the higher rank of Japan’s concept of “standard”.
Maybe he’d use it for his owns advantages, life-aims and whatnots, but the day the world killed him - marked him with a thick, red line in the official papers, assuming he was somewhere at the time the certain place exploded, sweeping everything and everyone out of the earth in the closest area - he stopped believing in the sense of living.
It’s not like he wanted to be found dead. He had his whole life ahead of him. He hadn’t done even half of the things he had been planning to do, he hadn’t been truly happy and he hadn’t felt any bigger satisfaction out of his achievements. But it’s just that everybody decided he is dead, not caring about any investigations, about looking for him, about the fact that at that time, Koyama simply took a small vacations from everything and everyone - and the only thing he could do, the only thing his mind told him was okay to do - was to actually die. Die to those people and to that world, just like everyone around had seemed to want him to be. And so he did.
Koyama Keiichiro’s existence was proved deceased two years ago, and for two years already, every day from his non-life, is like he’s starting and ending something new and fresh, as a completely different person who’s been given birth and death through the same twenty-four hours.
*
Koyama doesn’t know who Yamapi is. All he knows is his name - or rather nickname - his profession (although he’s aware of the fact that he might’ve lied to him just like Koyama himself had) and that his wallet is thick thanks to the countless banknotes and credit cards stuffed inside.
But really, it’s not like he’s supposed to know anything more. They’re just strangers, who met by sheer chance in the lousy pub in Nagoya. Koyama was a regular by now - two months of visiting the same local is something, after all - and apparently Yamapi was too, always a bit sad, maybe bored - and it was just the matter of time when they started some disobliging, half-drunken talk, leading to what Koyama knows all too well. A few nights, a few drinks, a few touches - and two people stumbling on their way to the bathroom, closing the door of the cabin with a loud thwack.
And Koyama swear he didn’t plan this. Not this time. But he can’t say no to such an opportunity.
Yamapi’s kind of irresistible. His lips are nothing but kissable, his eyes are hypnotizing, and his hands are warm and welcoming, encouraging to all those dirty acts Koyama is so familiar with. Maybe that’s why they are complementing each other, wanting the same thing, the only difference being Koyama’s intentions, not quite as Yamapi would imagine them to be.
But it’s not important there, not when Yamapi is holding him firmly against the wall of the small toilet cabin, fingers almost crushing Koyama’s wrists in that strong grip and mouth bruising his lips in a forceful kiss, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin and the tip of tongue dipping inside the small, fresh wound. All of these actions - forceful, confident, not holding any doubts behind - they are very Yamapi, just one hundred percent of him, and nothing less than that. And Koyama likes that, he likes seeing his true self, not limited by the real world’s restrictions, by people’s beliefs, by his own psychic barriers. He likes seeing - feeling - the raw emotions, radiating from him like crazy, one by one, making his head spin and mind go blank in that blissful awareness of self-satisfaction.
Koyama gives in to whatever Yamapi wants him to do - he moans shamelessly when Yamapi’s marking him with the next wet bites, soon turning into the mass of reddish spots all over the slightly tanned skin. He grinds his hips against Yamapi’s when he feels the increasing pressure. He dips his slender hand inside his tight jeans, fingers quickly finding his already hard cock, all too worked up, the friction clearly doing miracles to his senses. He strokes it a few times, thumb brushing over the head, index finger tracing path along the thick vein; but it ends as soon as it started, Koyama giving Yamapi a pointed look, telling him more than any words could say.
They both know what are the rules of this game - it’s obvious for them it’s not their first time, and there is no place for any kind of unrequited selfishness. Yamapi shoving Koyama is just the matter of time, the older man stumbling back barely two steps and falling down on the lavatory pan, cold ceramic contrasting with Koyama’s hot skin almost painfully. Small smirk lifts up the corners of his lips when Yamapi is soon following him by kneeling down on the not really clean floor, parting his legs with a powerful movement and sliding his pants down just enough to free his erection from the small prison of thick, tight material. And the feeling when Yamapi takes him in his mouth, those full lips closing around him and tongue finding its place right there, under the head - it’s such a heavenly sensation, that Koyama’s not even sure if there exist proper words to describe how he feels like.
Long, smooth fingers are soon tangled in deep-brown hair, smooth as silk and in perfect length just to tighten the grip on them and pull, make him look up, make him open his mouth wider, together with his deep eyes, make him see what a mess he makes out of Koyama with his doings. Make him feel satisfied with himself, what is probably the first time in ages - Koyama can see it in his eyes, in the way his lips twitch, how he hollows his cheeks more, putting extra care in taking him right to the heaven - or hell maybe - with that mouth and tongue of his.
Koyama doesn’t say anything, none of those dirty words he’s already used to tell his lovers, no praising for skills, for body, for anything they have and give him. There is no need for this, not between them - because Yamapi knows, he feels it in everything Koyama does, in every little shift, in even the smallest moan, in hands gripping and leading his head. And it takes just a little while more until Koyama comes, all his actions reaching its climax - back arching in a perfect bow, low moan spilling out of his mouth, hot release hitting the back of the other’s throat, and hands clenching and twisting his head so tightly, so forcefully, using so much strength of Koyama’s trained muscles and knowledge taught many years ago, it’s in no time when the bones of Yamapi’s neck crack, instantly sending him to the floor, body scattered on the dirty tiles like a rag doll.
Staring at the perfect body and the face, which is like a reflection of satisfaction and pride, Koyama decides it’s the rightest time to drink the last booze in that lousy local and leave Nagoya, moving on to the next place, to become a whole new, different person.
*
When Koyama, each and every day, rides what is probably the least popular subway line around Osaka’s area, it’s not because he has to. He doesn’t work or live anywhere near any of the stations the subway stops at, letting the very few people in and out of the carriage. He also has nobody to see, he doesn’t have any appointments and he’s not visiting any relatives or friends.
His only purpose is to meet - or rather observe - the one person that interests him strong enough to bother with all that long, fairly pointless ride.
Said man looks like he’s somewhere in the middle of his twenties, his appearance still fresh and young, but visibly grown-up, just enough to be considered as an evidently matured person’s feature. He’s not tall, and Koyama’s sure he’d smoothly find a few, even Japanese women, who are higher than him - but it doesn’t really means anything, as his manly attributes are easily making up for the loss of height.
Every evening he sees him on a subway, he’s wearing a grey suit with a snow-white shirt of which a few upper buttons are popped open, revealing some tanned skin from under the loosened tie. Koyama assumes he’s working in some kind of an office - businessman or just regular salaryman? - boring stuff that completely don’t match his young looks, his tanned skin, his sparkling eyes and phones plugged inside his ears. But that’s how people ends up these days, all wrapped up in everyday life, in routines, forgetting their lives and themselves.
And Koyama hates that, thinking it’s good he’s dead to the world. Because he wouldn’t like to really exist in the world which works like that.
For the past three weeks, all Koyama has been doing was riding the train, getting off on the same station as the object of his interest, making a small route around the area and then going back to home with the next train. Nothing much, anything that obvious - to the man Koyama’s probably just another stranger he meets during his usual rides. Maybe only a little bit more friendly - with the small smiles they’re exchanging, and in the third week even a barely noticeable, polite nods of heads.
It’s after exactly one month since the first time Koyama sees him, that he decides to transform his thoughts, plans, fantasies, into the actual actions. Everything’s almost as always - the small nod and short smile, a few quick glances throughout the boring, one hour long ride, the rustling of coats and knocking of formal shoes on the hard surface of train’s floor while the man, together with Koyama and one other businessman, gets up and moves towards the door. But this time, seeing the stranger going in steady pace in the same direction as always, Koyama doesn’t turn back and doesn’t take a stroll around the neighbourhood. Instead, he just starts following him, the rather small silhouette barely visible on the dark street with only a few streetlamps still working. His movements aren’t all that silent and careful - he’s just walking, a few steps behind him, not really caring if he notices his presence or not. Honestly, he hopes he will - it’d just mean less trouble to take care of, no sudden screams, no fighting against possible danger, no dealing with struggling body which doesn’t seem all that weak despite the lack of height.
It’s because of - or more likely thanks to - the small can kicked accidentally by Koyama, that the stranger finally acknowledges him. He turns back abruptly, looking somewhere between scared and ready to fight, and it amuses Koyama. The way people react to his all doings and actions, it’s always a great amusement.
Koyama doesn’t waste time or energy for waiting or explaining - once he’s sure the man recognizes him, he takes two long, quick steps towards him, grasps his hand and pulls him, strongly and resolutely, dragging him into the dark side-alley.
He lefts no time or space for any questions which the man, whose back hits the brick wall, would surely like to ask - the two pairs of lips crashing together in a hard, sharp kiss don’t allow anything more than a few wet sounds and a little bit of a moaning on the both sides, be it because of the thrill, or surprise, or whatever the stranger feels and thinks about when he’s receiving the next fierce kisses.
Koyama’s hands are slender, and his fingers long and agile, exploring the warm body beneath white shirt in no time, not really acknowledging any protests if the other one makes any of them. But soon it comes out he’s most surely not, when his own hands find their place on Koyama’s arms, tracing fingertips on the skin behind the collar of his deep-red shirt, caressing the nape of his neck and pulling on the short hair there, while responding to whatever heaven Koyama’s tongue is making inside of his mouth.
“Your name,” Koyama breaths out, the tip of tongue tracing the path over the edge of the man’s ear, making him shiver and whine softly.
“Ryo,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, and a little bit out of its own range when strong hands fall down on his belt, opening the buckle in no time.
“Ryo,” Koyama repeats, leaving small kisses along the line of his jaw. “Ryo is a nice name,” he adds, pushing a hand inside the other’s pants and wrapping fingers around the hardened erection. It brings the low, long moan out of Ryo’s mouth, and it’s like a melody to Koyama’s ears, a pleasure as strong as the one he feels while watching him - his lips swollen from hard kisses and slightly parted, hair in complete mess, eyes only half-opened, glassy and distracted.
“Say, Ryo,” Koyama starts, moving his hand lazily after letting the pants move lower and settle on Ryo’s hips, enough to give Koyama full access to his cock, but not enough to bare him completely. “Isn’t an overwhelming pleasure something you would like to receive at the end of a slow, boring and exhausting day in work? Wouldn’t you like to forget about everything, to live only for the slowly building up tension? To give yourself up to someone, not caring about consequences, about future, about reality?” he asks, and those questions are alluring, hypnotising, making him numb, and senseless, and unconscious about everything and everyone around. Ryo’s mind is fogged by the pleasure, by Koyama’s hand doing miracles to his arousal - warm hand wrapped around the shaft, thumb brushing over the head and nail teasing the slit - and he’s not thinking properly when he nods his head. And there are numberless pleas, and whines, and moans escaping his mouth, like his life’s depending on it, on him, on this situation.
And maybe it is, when Koyama sneaks his other hand around Ryo’s neck, soon closing it over his throat - maybe it is, but it’s a lose-lose situation, when he can’t really react, he doesn’t even notice this in fact, so absorbed in the pleasure, in Koyama’s voice, in captivating kisses distracting him from acknowledging the world around him. When he starts to loose his breath, when it’s harder and harder to catch the air - he blames his orgasm for this, the blood running wild in his veins and the pressure reaching the state it’s nothing but inhuman. And when he can’t breath anymore - it’s too late already, his body confronting with the spasms of orgasm, unable to defend itself in any possible way, the last thing he concentrates on is the hard, life-taking kiss.
Koyama thinks the body, laying lifelessly on the cold, wet ground, is beautiful. Peaceful and contented, wrapped up in the embrace of pleasure and comfort that makes him look like he lived a happy, satisfied life.
*
Tegoshi is that kind of guy, who is extremely easy to make friends with. He’s cheerful, bouncy and light-hearted, always up and ready for going out after work or doing something silly. It’s like he’s a complete opposition of the gloomy, autumn weather, and Koyama appreciates his company right from the first they he meets him.
However, soon he finds out that nothing’s as simple as it seems to be. After some time of observing him - and Koyama is really good in observing and analyzing people - he can see things that most of his friends, colleagues and people he meets randomly everyday, simply don’t notice. It’s all about small gestures - like dark looks throwing at people and things, barely visible smirks, tension he relieves only when he thinks nobody sees him. But he’s mistaken, because ever since he met Koyama, he can’t really hide everything, not before him.
It’s in the deep night, Tegoshi stumbling with Koyama on the way inside his apartment, both a little drunken, but still conscious, when they find out that little, soon turning into important, thing about themselves. It’s really ordinary situation, Tegoshi tripping over the thin air and falling back, pulling Koyama, who has no strength to support them both, with him. There is a big thud, and a moan, and a position they end in, a little more than awkward, Koyama between Tegoshi’s legs, with his elbow hitting his abdomen, causing him pain, but not really.
The thing that Tegoshi does is probably a mixture of alcohol and anger, suppressed for way too long - his surprisingly strong hands pulls Koyama closer, not minding the elbow digging into his stomach, making him breathless together with the weight falling down on him completely; but he doesn’t seem to mind, quite the opposite, he looks like he enjoys the feeling. And Koyama doesn’t argue with any of his both verbal and non-verbal wishes.
It’s in one single blink of an eye, clothes falling down on the soft carpet and backs hitting the next walls over and over again, rooms filled with wet sounds and groans, and dirty talk, and countless fucks, this word being the best definition for what’s going on in Tegoshi’s apartment. Because it’s all wild and animal, instincts taking them over - Koyama’s dominant side leaving no room for the sweet, good guy, and Tegoshi’s anger and irritation floating out of him, making his submissive position all sharp and gallant.
For Koyama’s slaps, he replies with bites.
Answering to his orders, he does the complete opposite, provoking him for more violent actions, for more resolution, for putting more strength in scolding him.
It’s all about fight, about things Tegoshi knows he can’t do in everyday life, having to adjust to the rules of society. He gives up on being himself for the sake of acceptation, and Koyama understands that, being glad he can do something to ease this pain, to let him be how he is, to relieve whatever it troubles him, in any way he wants to do it.
So he doesn’t hold back, when he has to slap him. He’s not trying to control the urge to bite him, to scratch that perfect skin of his, to leave marks all over him. Koyama doesn’t stop even when he hears pleas, when Tegoshi chokes on his own words after being knocked down and turned over, Koyama paying no attention to the pain he’s causing him with fucking him senseless, like a rag doll, like someone who isn’t human, who doesn’t deserve being given any feelings.
Of course, he doesn’t think that. But he knows what Tegoshi wants, and he’s willing to give it to him, to make him happy, to leave him without regrets. And when he reaches for the only one part of clothing left on Tegoshi, his red tie hanging loosely around his neck, he’s not really thinking anything. There are no thoughts, no regrets, no pros and cons when the knot tightens under the pressure of Koyama’s pull. It’s only him and Tegoshi, the younger man slowly drifting off, his hands giving up and head diving lifelessly into the soft pillow, and Koyama releasing his grip on the silk material right after that, releasing into the tight body while watching the peaceful face.
Tegoshi looks angelic, his features partially hidden behind the light-brown locks, skin sweaty and as perfect as ever. It’s the first time Koyama sees the real satisfaction on his face.
*
When he meets Shige, it’s by sheer chance.
Going back to Tokyo after three years is a sudden, unconsidered decision - he’s thinking about it one second, and the next he’s already there, stepping out of the train on the platform. Strolling through the busy city, Koyama admits he missed this - the rush, masses of people, combination of almost blinding, colourful lights all around him. In the past years he has visited many places, but he couldn’t think of the second one as lively and pompous as Tokyo.
He comes by many of those places he has some memories with - and really, it’s not like he wants to remember. Because of his many feelings, of emotions not leaving him and taking over his mind, and heart, and soul, and everything, he got rid of any sentiments - and he thought he did it successfully, preventing them from coming back; but now they’re here, right next to him, accompanying him with every next step, with every next breath. The places he used to go to with his friends, the shop he remembers buying presents for his mother, his university he liked so much. And there is even that park - rather small area between two different housing estates, full of greenery, relatively young trees and a playground in the middle, usually full of playing kids, but now quiet and empty, only one person - who definitely has his childhood behind him already - sitting on a see-saw, swinging lightly back and forth.
And the moment Koyama comes up closer and sees the man’s features, is when his heart skips a beat and the sudden flood of almost unbearable heat rushes over his whole body.
He knows he should just turn back on the balls of his foots and go away as soon and fast as possible. But somehow, he finds himself unable to do so, feeling as if the ground’s eating him up, holding him in place and not allowing to go away. And so he stands there, in the shadow of one of the big trees, observing the man who once was his best friend, but also an object of his uncontrollable desire and love.
It’s somewhat hard for Koyama to look at him. His whole silhouette is bend down, arms slouched and head held low, and he’s like a living exhibit of despair and sadness. Of course, he could be just tired, or troubled, or simply lost in his thoughts - but Koyama had known him for years, and even though he hasn’t seen him in such a long time, he still can sense what his mood is and if there is something wrong with him. And now, and there, he’s most definitely not okay.
Koyama has the moment of his own, private breakdown now; one side of his heart and mind wants to approach him, embrace and tell it’s going to be - whatever it is - okay, because he’s there now, for him, to listen and to ease his pain. But the other one stops him successfully from doing so, reminding him how easily he gave up on finding out if Koyama really died in that explosion, how quickly he got used to lack of Koyama’s presence. Something inside Koyama’s head screams it’s good Shige is suffering now, that he deserves this for all the things Koyama had to go through - but then there is another scream, the one that tells him to look at Shige, to see how miserable he is, asking if it’s really okay to leave like that someone, whom he loves.
That inner quarrel makes him feel dizzy and nauseous, dull ache hitting him with an incredible force and making it unable to move, to see, to hear. That’s why he doesn’t notice Shige getting up and walking away in the direction of blocks of flats, the younger man never acknowledging Koyama’s presence.
Koyama stays there for what feels like days and nights, but it’s barely two hours, when he’s finally able to move and take in his surroundings. It’s almost like he’s being born again, without those voices and without uncertainty washing away his personality - though not without fears which make him tremble only thinking about what he put himself into by coming back to Tokyo. And he knows there is no coming back, not when his legs move on its own, leading him towards the one building he knows the way to all too well, crossing it many times during both the day and night, for as many purposes as one could possibly think of.
Knocking over the hard surface of wooden door is fast and intensive, Koyama’s knuckles soon turning red and swollen when he’s waiting longer than he’d like to. But it takes just a few short moments more for the door to click and fall open, revealing Shige’s disoriented face, probably wondering who is visiting him in such late hours.
What Koyama sees next is something he has never encountered ever before - thousands, millions even, of emotions crossing over the same face, one fading into another and then coming back, like in a mad kaleidoscope that makes you go blind and crazy because of the variety of colours, shapes and patterns.
Koyama thinks the raw emotions visible all over Shige knocks him out once again, and he forgets what it means to be rational, and how to breath, to think, to speak - all he can do is take two small steps further, arms finding their place around Shige’s ones, mouth smashing against his lips in a weird imitation of what could be the kiss, door falling closed behind them. Koyama can feel Shige tensing under his touch, still as confused as seconds ago, if not even more, but it’s not important, not now and not ever, when Koyama feels like he’s drugged, like he’s happy.
But the happiness - or what he imagines to be happiness - is soon broken down, by Shige wriggling out of his hold, by his hands laid on his arms and shoving him back - just a few centimetres, but even such a small distance, in this moment, is like an incredible loss for Koyama.
“Koyama,” Shige breaths then, and Koyama’s eyelids fall down for one second, delighted in how his voice sounds, how good his name rolls off his tongue. “Koyama,” he repeats, like he wants to convince himself it’s really him, standing right there, lively and healthy, like there was no explosion, and death, and funeral.
And Koyama nods a few times, wanting Shige to believe, to see and to feel, just like he does in this moment, “Yes. Gods, Shige, yes. It’s me.”
The words escape his mouth, and the moment they do, Shige’s pulling him back, so close it’s almost impossible - but they feel it, both of them, and there is no way for this to not be true. It’s in their breaths and clenched eyelids, in the kiss Koyama gives him, and in the one Shige accepts and returns. It’s in all of their touches, hands cupping cheeks and fingers tracing patterns over arms, and fingertips exploring the warm skin beneath their clothes; it’s in every gesture and in every action, and there is no stop for that, because it’s like a tremendous avalanche.
It’s somewhere between one and another kiss, when Shige holds Koyama’s head in place, their foreheads touching and lips millimetres away when he speaks, “I have no idea if this is real,” he says, and his voice is very small, just enough to be heard, even though they’re both sure they would understand each other even without usage of words. “I have no idea, because I’ve been imagining this, you, so many times already, that I’m not sure if it’s not just the next hallucination. But you know what, I don’t care. I don’t care as long as I can feel you.”
And it gets to Koyama, those words and the honesty he can hear in them. In this one moment he doesn’t concentrate on his sorrows, instead of it just taking what he can, enjoying this as much as it’s possible, making it the best night he had in years.
It’s all intensity and passion, closed in wild frame of raw emotions reflected in actions; their hands are trembling and their lips are everywhere in fear to not miss something important, something they’ve already missed and neglected before. Fingers clenching around white sheets on Shige’s bed, legs wrapping around hips, tingles of pain mixed with waves of pleasure - it’s all in them, with them, on them, so vivid and real it hurts, but the agony isn’t really discomforting. They welcome it with small smiles and low groans, and with sweaty foreheads, and with sound of wet skin slapping against skin when they can’t wait anymore, not now and not ever.
Koyama calls out Shige’s name, and he doesn’t really know why - because the view of the most important person in his life, leaning over him, his face contorted in pleasure, is just beautiful and breathtaking - but there is this irrational fear in him, the one that comes out after the small voice in his head takes the lead once again, making him shiver and trash on bed like he wants to tell it to go away, to leave him alone.
And so he tries again, and again, wanting Shige to look at him, to see through him, to ease his pain, and his fears, and make it be okay, because it’s the first time in years Koyama believes - wants to believe - Shige can do it just well.
“Shige,” Koyama whines when he reaches out his arms, hands laid flatly on Shige’s sweaty back, pulling him down into a hug Shige doesn’t resist to. “I’ve been killing people, Shige,” Koyama breaths in his ear, voice hoarse and trembling, be it the pleasure or something completely else, his hands gripping Shige’s shoulders as if he’s going to sink without him.
“What are you-what are you talking about,” Shige replies, breathless, lips mouthing the salty skin on his neck and hips never slowing it’s pace, never stopping, the daze being too strong, too forceful to oppose.
It takes a few moments, three thrusts and a single moan for Koyama to reply with his throat jammed, “I’ll have to kill you too,” he adds in the end, and it’s with the fear in his voice, like he doesn’t really want to do it, like he’s afraid, for the first time in over two years.
But Shige laughs at that, oblivious to his fears, to trembling hands, too wrapped up in that delightful pleasure, exactly the same one that killed all of Koyama’s previous lovers.
And he never believes Koyama’s words.