fingernails go dragging down the wall
Right. I've decided to post the Kondo/Asakura thing, because even though I'm not sure if I'm entirely happy with it, I've got to the point where I can no longer distance myself from it enough to edit properly, and am instead just rereading blankly. So, here, make of it what you will.
Dissonance
→ inconsistency between the beliefs one holds, or between one's actions and one's beliefs
→ in music, a combination of tones contextually considered to suggest unrelieved tension and require resolution.
(Kondo/Asakura)
The boy sits by the window with a guitar poised on his knee, fingers moving fretfully over the strings. No real tune, just scraps of nonsense melody, and he rarely seems to play more than that nowadays. Yuki grades papers on the sofa, listens to the scattered non-music, to the scratching of pen on paper, to a car alarm in the street below; he pretends not to notice Asakura watching him.
Asakura is always watching, dark-rimmed eyes always on Yuki and always laughing. Yuki thinks of Poe's raven, perched above the door with black eyes and a demon's soul; sometimes it wouldn't surprise him to hear that word from Asakura's lips. He wonders why the boy keeps coming here.
Saki picks at the guitar strings, watches.
*
Yuki rents a studio apartment, the sort of place he couldn't afford on a teacher's salary except it's in the bad part of town, in a scarcely-converted warehouse with creaking floorboards and plaster coming away from the wall in clots, and some nights there are dealers selling crack under the window. It has good acoustics, though, which is why Asakura started showing up, guitar case slung across his back and a smirk on his face, knowing Yuki wouldn't turn him away. Yuki never did, never has, knowing what such rejection would mean, and Saki's not such bad company when he's actually talking. They have a lot in common, after all.
And maybe it's a bit pathetic for a grown man to count a sixteen year old student as a friend, but it's not as if Yuki has all that many friends. Not as if either of them do. Yuki sometimes thinks he forfeited his right to have friends a long time ago, and Asakura's too bitter, too distrustful of everyone to make friends easily. The fact that he's here maybe means that he trusts Yuki, at least. Or maybe it doesn't. It's difficult to tell with him.
"Why do you keep this place?" Saki asks him one day, leaning in the corner of the window frame.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at it - it's a dump. And it's not even convenient for work. The only thing it has going for it is it's big, you can tell people you live in a studio apartment." He sneers the words, then his expression softens to something strange. "I wouldn't have expected that from you."
For a few seconds Yuki can only stare at him, not sure whether to be defensive or amused or annoyed by the faint note of sympathy in the boy's voice. Saki stares back briefly, fiercely, then drops his gaze and plucks distractedly on a few strings, frowns, fiddles with a tuning peg. In anyone else Yuki would call that embarrassment, and he's a little flustered himself because he can't think of any response that won't sound like either an admission or a frantic denial.
In the end he says nothing at all, but later he thinks about what Asakura expects of him, of the fact that he has expectations to be betrayed; maybe - maybe - this sort-of friendship really means something to the boy; maybe he's learning to let himself care.
*
One evening he's getting ready to leave when Saki arrives, lets himself in though Yuki hasn't given him a key. He doesn't know if Asakura's somehow had one made or if lock-picking is one of his skills, and he doesn't ask because he knows Saki wants him to; eventually, arrogance and impatience will force the truth out of the boy, and that will be a small triumph.
"I'm going out to dinner," he tells him, but Asakura hangs around anyway, makes sarcastic comments about his clothes, his cologne, his unchivalrous intentions.
"And your tie's crooked," he says and reaches up to grasp the knot with both hands, thin fingers curling around the fabric, tugging at it in a way that's both childish and very adult. He looks up and his eyes meet Yuki's, soot-black and mischievous, and his hands stay on the tie, a knowing-shy smile on his lips. Saki is too close; there's a lump in Yuki's throat he can't swallow. His palm is suddenly, mysteriously pressed to Asakura's cheek, and Saki is leaning into the touch, almost nuzzling, lips parting and breath coming shallow as Yuki's hand slides over his jaw. Too close, and Saki's tongue slides out, flicks over the tip of his thumb, warm and wet, and the spell is broken.
Yuki garbles some excuse and as good as bolts, leaving Saki behind in the apartment. When he gets outside he has to lean against a wall for a few seconds, still quivering with the shock of it.
More than a few seconds; more than a minute, and he still doesn't have a clue what just happened.
*
Dinner is in a restaurant, a little bistro, and the light from the dimmed lamps is warm, honeys Kiyoko's hair and glows in her brown eyes, makes them sparkle. Her cheeks pink from the wine, head tilting as she talks, liquid bobbing in the glass with her careless gestures; they're both a little drunk on alcohol and rich food. Yuki watches her talking, laughing, the line of her neck and her bright-coloured fingernails, the smallest details of her standing out in his mind and he suddenly thinks that yes, yes, he might just be in love.
This thought terrifies him, because he isn't worth this, isn't worth her; he's solved every problem in his life by running away and who can say he'll ever do any different? He even ran from Asakura tonight, chased from his own home by a teenaged boy, and that's definitely not the direction he wants his thoughts to be going; he's sitting here with Kiyoko realising that maybe he's in love with her, and his head is filled with the smooth warmth of Saki's skin under his hand, the feral look in the boy's eyes.
He feels suddenly very sober now, and a lot less comfortable, and he reminds himself of the effects of alcohol: plays tricks, distorts emotion into some bloated effigy of itself, blurs your thoughts and turns them traitor. Anything else is too much, too frightening, though he's not certain which set of reactions is worrying him more.
Yuki makes his excuses early, pleads tiredness and Kiyoko understands, she's got an early training session in the morning anyway, got to lick her team into shape. Yuki pretends he's not hurrying home, pretends part of him isn't hoping Asakura's still there, pretends there isn't an ache of obscure disappointment in his gut when he returns to an empty apartment, the sofa cushions still dented where Saki must have sprawled to watch TV.
He goes to bed and tries not to think about anything.
*
Two days later Saki shows up, perches on the window ledge with his guitar, then later helps himself to half of Yuki's dinner, and it's as if nothing ever happened. Nothing ever did, Yuki reminds himself.
*
He walks out of the school one day and finds Sou lounging by the gate, smoking a cigarette and waving lazily when he sees Yuki.
"What are you doing here?" Yuki is somewhere between amazed and delighted, because he never really expected to see Sou again, certainly never expected Sou to want to see him.
"My sister's kid goes here," Sou tells him by way of explanation. "She's always going on about the amazing Kondo-sensei, how cool and how cute he is, and then the other day she tells me that he used to be in a band when he went to Kouzu, which obviously makes him even cooler. So, thought I'd come down and see if it really was you."
Yuki gives a sheepish grin. "Yeah, it's me all right."
"Thought it would be." Sou winks at him. "Wanna go get a drink?"
"It's a bit early, isn't it?"
"Are you sure it's really you?"
*
The bar is dingy but comfortable, worn leather seating, dimmed lights and lo-fi indie music grinding in the background. The sort of place they used to come to back then, back when they were still a band, back when they were still friends. Long, muggy afternoons spent in grimy student pubs, drinking cheap beer and planning Metro's conquest of the music industry, Yuki and Sou and Enji, who always had a drumstick twirling between his callused fingers, an almost unconscious motion. Yuki feels an almost painful rush of nostalgia at that memory, but forces it away. That was a long time ago, he reminds himself, taking a drink from his bottle of beer. A very long time ago, and he and Sou are among the oldest people in here; even the bartender looks no more than nineteen.
They talk, with the ease of men who once knew each other very well, and the slight awkwardness of men with bad blood in their past. Sou's a civil engineer now, successful in a quiet sort of way, and Yuki asks about his family (sister moved to Hong Kong, brother in the navy) and his life (unmarried and no intentions to, happy in the job except when it's a pain in the ass), tells Sou about his life in turn ("Minefuji Kiyoko? Really?") and what it's like working in Kouzu (he still has difficulty not calling his former teachers "sensei"). He's somewhat surprised to hear that Sou is still in touch with Enji, who's working in some office somewhere, is madly in love and engaged to be married ("you should see him, it's pathetic"). Eventually, though, the conversation ebbs until they're sitting in silence, and Yuki finally steels himself to ask:
"Do you ever wonder what might have happened, if things had worked out differently?"
"If you hadn't left, you mean?"
"Yeah," Yuki acknowledges with a wry tilt of the head. Sou's gaze drops to the bottle dangling from his fingers, his other hand picking compulsively at the label. The corners of his mouth tighten for a moment, but then he lifts his head, and his eyes when they meet Yuki's are clear.
"Sometimes," he admits. "But I doubt much would have changed. Metro was never anything special - you were the one with the talent. If you'd stayed with us, we might have ended up a well-known local band, but that would have been all, I think."
It was something Yuki had to ask, the question that's been hanging over them since they met, the question that Yuki's asked himself on countless occasions over the years. He's not sure if Sou's answer was entirely honest, but it's an answer at least, and Yuki needed to hear it. He nods in acknowledgement, drains the dregs from his bottle, and gets up.
"My round, I think."
*
It's dark outside when they leave, only the orange lamp above the door lighting the narrow side street, and they're both laughing and glamour-eyed, more than a little buzzed. Sou says something, something like it's good to see you, Yuki, but the words don't really matter and then he's pulling Yuki against him, arms gripping tight and hands splay-fingered on his back, breath huffing hot and wet against Yuki's ear. Yuki is surprised and obscurely happy; he returns the gesture, and they stand like that for long moments before taking a step apart, hands still grasping at shoulders and arms and only a heartbeat's worth of space between them.
And oh, yeah, back then this would be the time when one or other of them got down on their knees, because they were kids then and while everything they did was of utmost importance nothing really mattered, nothing had consequences, and it wasn't really anything, just something that happened. But they're grown up now and they know all about consequences, about the weight of actions. So while Yuki thinks briefly of maybe pushing Sou up against a wall, he doesn't, because he might be in love and because he doesn't want a smack to the mouth, even if Sou's grinning at him in a way that pushes all sorts of remembered buttons in Yuki's libido. Yuki lets go of Sou's arms, cuffs him on the shoulder and smiles at him, then steps back. Sou is still grinning amicably, and Yuki is probably imagining the faint shadow of disappointment in his expression.
"It's good to see you too," Yuki tells him, and they part ways with promises that they'll get together again some time soon, drag Enji along too if Sou can pry him away from that woman, they're practically joined at the hip he swears, have a proper Metro reunion. Maybe they might even keep that promise, though Yuki won't depend on it; he can't seem to find it in him to hold onto anyone or anything, and memories of a long-ago band are tenuous threads to hang your hopes on. He watches Sou walk off into the halogen-lit night, a strange unease gnawing inside him, a sense of lost time and lost opportunities, of things that he will never be or do. Memory, he thinks, is a cruel thing.
*
When he gets home Asakura is on his sofa, slouched there like he owns the place, smiling knowingly at Yuki and Yuki thinks suddenly that he can't take this anymore.
"You're drunk," Saki tells him. Yuki shrugs and slips his jacket off, hanging it by the door. When he turns back Asakura is sitting up, looking bemused.
"I've never seen you drunk before."
"It happens," says Yuki, wondering if he's somehow disappointed Asakura again, somehow not lived up to the boy's expectations, like his apartment doesn't live up to them, like he never seems to, and when the hell did Asakura decide he had the right do expect anything from Yuki? He has a life to live, he can't be a teacher twenty-four-fucking-seven, Asakura Saki's own personal mentor. He shouldn't even be here, anyway, letting himself into Yuki's apartment and lounging around like king of the fucking castle.
"What are you doing here?" Yuki asks, and it comes out more demanding than he meant it, like anger, like resentment, and he didn't mean that, not really. Something in Saki flinches, though, something beneath that weird, brittle arrogance of his latching onto any hint of rejection and cradling it close, closing protectively around it like bone around a bullet. He gets up, and Yuki can see things shutting down behind his eyes, defences slamming into place.
"Sorry, Kondo-sensei," he says with forced ease. "I'll remember to ask permission next time," and no, no, this wasn't what Yuki wanted, not at all. He likes having Asakura turn up unannounced, sprawling on his window ledge and smirking and picking at his guitar strings, eating Yuki's food and criticising his dress sense, and those dark eyes unguarded like Yuki's never seen them anywhere else. Asakura makes to walk past him, towards the door, and Yuki grabs his arm, drags the boy around to look at him. Saki's eyes are clouded and hostile, and Yuki recognises that look for hurt, the only way Asakura knows how to express it.
"Asakura," he says, "Saki," and it's a plea. "I didn't mean - "
But what he didn't mean is never articulated, because Asakura's free hand is on his hip and moving, bumping over the jut of Yuki's pelvis to slide across his groin, the flat of Asakura's hand rubbing roughly against the seam. Yuki gives a sharp, shocked gasp, lets go of Saki's arm as if he's been burned, and then Saki's other hand is gripping his thigh for balance as Saki sinks to his knees on the warped wooden floor. Yuki tries to say something but his throat is dry and knotted as the wood beneath his feet, and ridiculously all he can think of is how he considered doing this to Sou earlier. He hears the distinctive sound of zipper teeth parting, and Saki is leaning in open-mouthed, and Yuki groans.
He tangles his fingers in Saki's hair and tries to imagine it longer and shades lighter, that hot wet mouth slicked with colour, soft curves where he knows there would be only sharp angles to the touch, lengths of muscle and narrow bone. He tries, and fails, can't even lose himself in a fantasy of her. This is Asakura Saki's mouth he's pushing into: brilliant, damaged Saki with his wicked, soot-dark eyes and his aching loneliness, and Yuki is taking brutal advantage of that loneliness. This is wrong, he knows, and cruel, but he can't help himself, he can't, he just, just -
Yuki chokes back a sound as he comes, knows he's digging his nails into Asakura's scalp and hears the boy gag against the warm, salty-bitter liquid in his throat. He feels himself slipping out of Asakura's mouth, and as he closes his fly Saki spits into his cupped palm, looking vaguely nauseated.
"Is that what you wanted?" Yuki asks tiredly. He hands the boy a towel and Asakura wipes his hand, stands there for a moment clutching the towel like a kid with a security blanket. He's shaking a little.
"You should probably go home."
Yuki opens the door and Asakura walks over with lowered head, not looking at him. In the doorway he stops, raises his eyes, dark and defiant.
"No," he says. "No, that wasn't what I wanted."
He pulls Yuki's head down and presses warm lips to his, fingers moving into Yuki's short hair and moulding themselves to his skull, as if afraid to risk letting go. Kisses him, shoves an eager tongue in his mouth, and Yuki finds his arms winding around Saki's thin shoulders (just sinew and bone, as he thought), finds his mouth opening easily, gratefully, and his own tongue just as willing.
Finds himself pulling the boy into his bed, where Saki's lean white body curls and flexes against his, throat ragged with curses and moans, muscles twitching where Yuki's hand moves. And afterwards finds Saki still in his arms, sweat cooling uncomfortably on both their skins and Yuki's arm going dead, but right now Saki is wearing an almost-real smile and Yuki doesn't want to lose that expression.
"What now?" Saki mumbles against his neck, half asleep, and Yuki answers the only way he can.
"I don't know."
*
He wakes in the morning and Saki is gone, though the bed is still slightly warm beside him. The full realisation of what he's done hits Yuki like a boot to the stomach; he runs to the bathroom, certain he's going to throw up, but he doesn't, only retches dryly, sick guilt wrenching at his gut. Stays kneeling there for a long time, trembling and horrified, and is still shaking when he pulls himself to his feet.
A week passes, then two weeks, and Saki doesn't come back.
Yuki doesn't know what to do.
[/fic]
Umm, yeah.
Dissonance
→ inconsistency between the beliefs one holds, or between one's actions and one's beliefs
→ in music, a combination of tones contextually considered to suggest unrelieved tension and require resolution.
(Kondo/Asakura)
The boy sits by the window with a guitar poised on his knee, fingers moving fretfully over the strings. No real tune, just scraps of nonsense melody, and he rarely seems to play more than that nowadays. Yuki grades papers on the sofa, listens to the scattered non-music, to the scratching of pen on paper, to a car alarm in the street below; he pretends not to notice Asakura watching him.
Asakura is always watching, dark-rimmed eyes always on Yuki and always laughing. Yuki thinks of Poe's raven, perched above the door with black eyes and a demon's soul; sometimes it wouldn't surprise him to hear that word from Asakura's lips. He wonders why the boy keeps coming here.
Saki picks at the guitar strings, watches.
*
Yuki rents a studio apartment, the sort of place he couldn't afford on a teacher's salary except it's in the bad part of town, in a scarcely-converted warehouse with creaking floorboards and plaster coming away from the wall in clots, and some nights there are dealers selling crack under the window. It has good acoustics, though, which is why Asakura started showing up, guitar case slung across his back and a smirk on his face, knowing Yuki wouldn't turn him away. Yuki never did, never has, knowing what such rejection would mean, and Saki's not such bad company when he's actually talking. They have a lot in common, after all.
And maybe it's a bit pathetic for a grown man to count a sixteen year old student as a friend, but it's not as if Yuki has all that many friends. Not as if either of them do. Yuki sometimes thinks he forfeited his right to have friends a long time ago, and Asakura's too bitter, too distrustful of everyone to make friends easily. The fact that he's here maybe means that he trusts Yuki, at least. Or maybe it doesn't. It's difficult to tell with him.
"Why do you keep this place?" Saki asks him one day, leaning in the corner of the window frame.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at it - it's a dump. And it's not even convenient for work. The only thing it has going for it is it's big, you can tell people you live in a studio apartment." He sneers the words, then his expression softens to something strange. "I wouldn't have expected that from you."
For a few seconds Yuki can only stare at him, not sure whether to be defensive or amused or annoyed by the faint note of sympathy in the boy's voice. Saki stares back briefly, fiercely, then drops his gaze and plucks distractedly on a few strings, frowns, fiddles with a tuning peg. In anyone else Yuki would call that embarrassment, and he's a little flustered himself because he can't think of any response that won't sound like either an admission or a frantic denial.
In the end he says nothing at all, but later he thinks about what Asakura expects of him, of the fact that he has expectations to be betrayed; maybe - maybe - this sort-of friendship really means something to the boy; maybe he's learning to let himself care.
*
One evening he's getting ready to leave when Saki arrives, lets himself in though Yuki hasn't given him a key. He doesn't know if Asakura's somehow had one made or if lock-picking is one of his skills, and he doesn't ask because he knows Saki wants him to; eventually, arrogance and impatience will force the truth out of the boy, and that will be a small triumph.
"I'm going out to dinner," he tells him, but Asakura hangs around anyway, makes sarcastic comments about his clothes, his cologne, his unchivalrous intentions.
"And your tie's crooked," he says and reaches up to grasp the knot with both hands, thin fingers curling around the fabric, tugging at it in a way that's both childish and very adult. He looks up and his eyes meet Yuki's, soot-black and mischievous, and his hands stay on the tie, a knowing-shy smile on his lips. Saki is too close; there's a lump in Yuki's throat he can't swallow. His palm is suddenly, mysteriously pressed to Asakura's cheek, and Saki is leaning into the touch, almost nuzzling, lips parting and breath coming shallow as Yuki's hand slides over his jaw. Too close, and Saki's tongue slides out, flicks over the tip of his thumb, warm and wet, and the spell is broken.
Yuki garbles some excuse and as good as bolts, leaving Saki behind in the apartment. When he gets outside he has to lean against a wall for a few seconds, still quivering with the shock of it.
More than a few seconds; more than a minute, and he still doesn't have a clue what just happened.
*
Dinner is in a restaurant, a little bistro, and the light from the dimmed lamps is warm, honeys Kiyoko's hair and glows in her brown eyes, makes them sparkle. Her cheeks pink from the wine, head tilting as she talks, liquid bobbing in the glass with her careless gestures; they're both a little drunk on alcohol and rich food. Yuki watches her talking, laughing, the line of her neck and her bright-coloured fingernails, the smallest details of her standing out in his mind and he suddenly thinks that yes, yes, he might just be in love.
This thought terrifies him, because he isn't worth this, isn't worth her; he's solved every problem in his life by running away and who can say he'll ever do any different? He even ran from Asakura tonight, chased from his own home by a teenaged boy, and that's definitely not the direction he wants his thoughts to be going; he's sitting here with Kiyoko realising that maybe he's in love with her, and his head is filled with the smooth warmth of Saki's skin under his hand, the feral look in the boy's eyes.
He feels suddenly very sober now, and a lot less comfortable, and he reminds himself of the effects of alcohol: plays tricks, distorts emotion into some bloated effigy of itself, blurs your thoughts and turns them traitor. Anything else is too much, too frightening, though he's not certain which set of reactions is worrying him more.
Yuki makes his excuses early, pleads tiredness and Kiyoko understands, she's got an early training session in the morning anyway, got to lick her team into shape. Yuki pretends he's not hurrying home, pretends part of him isn't hoping Asakura's still there, pretends there isn't an ache of obscure disappointment in his gut when he returns to an empty apartment, the sofa cushions still dented where Saki must have sprawled to watch TV.
He goes to bed and tries not to think about anything.
*
Two days later Saki shows up, perches on the window ledge with his guitar, then later helps himself to half of Yuki's dinner, and it's as if nothing ever happened. Nothing ever did, Yuki reminds himself.
*
He walks out of the school one day and finds Sou lounging by the gate, smoking a cigarette and waving lazily when he sees Yuki.
"What are you doing here?" Yuki is somewhere between amazed and delighted, because he never really expected to see Sou again, certainly never expected Sou to want to see him.
"My sister's kid goes here," Sou tells him by way of explanation. "She's always going on about the amazing Kondo-sensei, how cool and how cute he is, and then the other day she tells me that he used to be in a band when he went to Kouzu, which obviously makes him even cooler. So, thought I'd come down and see if it really was you."
Yuki gives a sheepish grin. "Yeah, it's me all right."
"Thought it would be." Sou winks at him. "Wanna go get a drink?"
"It's a bit early, isn't it?"
"Are you sure it's really you?"
*
The bar is dingy but comfortable, worn leather seating, dimmed lights and lo-fi indie music grinding in the background. The sort of place they used to come to back then, back when they were still a band, back when they were still friends. Long, muggy afternoons spent in grimy student pubs, drinking cheap beer and planning Metro's conquest of the music industry, Yuki and Sou and Enji, who always had a drumstick twirling between his callused fingers, an almost unconscious motion. Yuki feels an almost painful rush of nostalgia at that memory, but forces it away. That was a long time ago, he reminds himself, taking a drink from his bottle of beer. A very long time ago, and he and Sou are among the oldest people in here; even the bartender looks no more than nineteen.
They talk, with the ease of men who once knew each other very well, and the slight awkwardness of men with bad blood in their past. Sou's a civil engineer now, successful in a quiet sort of way, and Yuki asks about his family (sister moved to Hong Kong, brother in the navy) and his life (unmarried and no intentions to, happy in the job except when it's a pain in the ass), tells Sou about his life in turn ("Minefuji Kiyoko? Really?") and what it's like working in Kouzu (he still has difficulty not calling his former teachers "sensei"). He's somewhat surprised to hear that Sou is still in touch with Enji, who's working in some office somewhere, is madly in love and engaged to be married ("you should see him, it's pathetic"). Eventually, though, the conversation ebbs until they're sitting in silence, and Yuki finally steels himself to ask:
"Do you ever wonder what might have happened, if things had worked out differently?"
"If you hadn't left, you mean?"
"Yeah," Yuki acknowledges with a wry tilt of the head. Sou's gaze drops to the bottle dangling from his fingers, his other hand picking compulsively at the label. The corners of his mouth tighten for a moment, but then he lifts his head, and his eyes when they meet Yuki's are clear.
"Sometimes," he admits. "But I doubt much would have changed. Metro was never anything special - you were the one with the talent. If you'd stayed with us, we might have ended up a well-known local band, but that would have been all, I think."
It was something Yuki had to ask, the question that's been hanging over them since they met, the question that Yuki's asked himself on countless occasions over the years. He's not sure if Sou's answer was entirely honest, but it's an answer at least, and Yuki needed to hear it. He nods in acknowledgement, drains the dregs from his bottle, and gets up.
"My round, I think."
*
It's dark outside when they leave, only the orange lamp above the door lighting the narrow side street, and they're both laughing and glamour-eyed, more than a little buzzed. Sou says something, something like it's good to see you, Yuki, but the words don't really matter and then he's pulling Yuki against him, arms gripping tight and hands splay-fingered on his back, breath huffing hot and wet against Yuki's ear. Yuki is surprised and obscurely happy; he returns the gesture, and they stand like that for long moments before taking a step apart, hands still grasping at shoulders and arms and only a heartbeat's worth of space between them.
And oh, yeah, back then this would be the time when one or other of them got down on their knees, because they were kids then and while everything they did was of utmost importance nothing really mattered, nothing had consequences, and it wasn't really anything, just something that happened. But they're grown up now and they know all about consequences, about the weight of actions. So while Yuki thinks briefly of maybe pushing Sou up against a wall, he doesn't, because he might be in love and because he doesn't want a smack to the mouth, even if Sou's grinning at him in a way that pushes all sorts of remembered buttons in Yuki's libido. Yuki lets go of Sou's arms, cuffs him on the shoulder and smiles at him, then steps back. Sou is still grinning amicably, and Yuki is probably imagining the faint shadow of disappointment in his expression.
"It's good to see you too," Yuki tells him, and they part ways with promises that they'll get together again some time soon, drag Enji along too if Sou can pry him away from that woman, they're practically joined at the hip he swears, have a proper Metro reunion. Maybe they might even keep that promise, though Yuki won't depend on it; he can't seem to find it in him to hold onto anyone or anything, and memories of a long-ago band are tenuous threads to hang your hopes on. He watches Sou walk off into the halogen-lit night, a strange unease gnawing inside him, a sense of lost time and lost opportunities, of things that he will never be or do. Memory, he thinks, is a cruel thing.
*
When he gets home Asakura is on his sofa, slouched there like he owns the place, smiling knowingly at Yuki and Yuki thinks suddenly that he can't take this anymore.
"You're drunk," Saki tells him. Yuki shrugs and slips his jacket off, hanging it by the door. When he turns back Asakura is sitting up, looking bemused.
"I've never seen you drunk before."
"It happens," says Yuki, wondering if he's somehow disappointed Asakura again, somehow not lived up to the boy's expectations, like his apartment doesn't live up to them, like he never seems to, and when the hell did Asakura decide he had the right do expect anything from Yuki? He has a life to live, he can't be a teacher twenty-four-fucking-seven, Asakura Saki's own personal mentor. He shouldn't even be here, anyway, letting himself into Yuki's apartment and lounging around like king of the fucking castle.
"What are you doing here?" Yuki asks, and it comes out more demanding than he meant it, like anger, like resentment, and he didn't mean that, not really. Something in Saki flinches, though, something beneath that weird, brittle arrogance of his latching onto any hint of rejection and cradling it close, closing protectively around it like bone around a bullet. He gets up, and Yuki can see things shutting down behind his eyes, defences slamming into place.
"Sorry, Kondo-sensei," he says with forced ease. "I'll remember to ask permission next time," and no, no, this wasn't what Yuki wanted, not at all. He likes having Asakura turn up unannounced, sprawling on his window ledge and smirking and picking at his guitar strings, eating Yuki's food and criticising his dress sense, and those dark eyes unguarded like Yuki's never seen them anywhere else. Asakura makes to walk past him, towards the door, and Yuki grabs his arm, drags the boy around to look at him. Saki's eyes are clouded and hostile, and Yuki recognises that look for hurt, the only way Asakura knows how to express it.
"Asakura," he says, "Saki," and it's a plea. "I didn't mean - "
But what he didn't mean is never articulated, because Asakura's free hand is on his hip and moving, bumping over the jut of Yuki's pelvis to slide across his groin, the flat of Asakura's hand rubbing roughly against the seam. Yuki gives a sharp, shocked gasp, lets go of Saki's arm as if he's been burned, and then Saki's other hand is gripping his thigh for balance as Saki sinks to his knees on the warped wooden floor. Yuki tries to say something but his throat is dry and knotted as the wood beneath his feet, and ridiculously all he can think of is how he considered doing this to Sou earlier. He hears the distinctive sound of zipper teeth parting, and Saki is leaning in open-mouthed, and Yuki groans.
He tangles his fingers in Saki's hair and tries to imagine it longer and shades lighter, that hot wet mouth slicked with colour, soft curves where he knows there would be only sharp angles to the touch, lengths of muscle and narrow bone. He tries, and fails, can't even lose himself in a fantasy of her. This is Asakura Saki's mouth he's pushing into: brilliant, damaged Saki with his wicked, soot-dark eyes and his aching loneliness, and Yuki is taking brutal advantage of that loneliness. This is wrong, he knows, and cruel, but he can't help himself, he can't, he just, just -
Yuki chokes back a sound as he comes, knows he's digging his nails into Asakura's scalp and hears the boy gag against the warm, salty-bitter liquid in his throat. He feels himself slipping out of Asakura's mouth, and as he closes his fly Saki spits into his cupped palm, looking vaguely nauseated.
"Is that what you wanted?" Yuki asks tiredly. He hands the boy a towel and Asakura wipes his hand, stands there for a moment clutching the towel like a kid with a security blanket. He's shaking a little.
"You should probably go home."
Yuki opens the door and Asakura walks over with lowered head, not looking at him. In the doorway he stops, raises his eyes, dark and defiant.
"No," he says. "No, that wasn't what I wanted."
He pulls Yuki's head down and presses warm lips to his, fingers moving into Yuki's short hair and moulding themselves to his skull, as if afraid to risk letting go. Kisses him, shoves an eager tongue in his mouth, and Yuki finds his arms winding around Saki's thin shoulders (just sinew and bone, as he thought), finds his mouth opening easily, gratefully, and his own tongue just as willing.
Finds himself pulling the boy into his bed, where Saki's lean white body curls and flexes against his, throat ragged with curses and moans, muscles twitching where Yuki's hand moves. And afterwards finds Saki still in his arms, sweat cooling uncomfortably on both their skins and Yuki's arm going dead, but right now Saki is wearing an almost-real smile and Yuki doesn't want to lose that expression.
"What now?" Saki mumbles against his neck, half asleep, and Yuki answers the only way he can.
"I don't know."
*
He wakes in the morning and Saki is gone, though the bed is still slightly warm beside him. The full realisation of what he's done hits Yuki like a boot to the stomach; he runs to the bathroom, certain he's going to throw up, but he doesn't, only retches dryly, sick guilt wrenching at his gut. Stays kneeling there for a long time, trembling and horrified, and is still shaking when he pulls himself to his feet.
A week passes, then two weeks, and Saki doesn't come back.
Yuki doesn't know what to do.
[/fic]
Umm, yeah.