The Experiment (YGO, yaoi, R, HondaxRyuuji)
I had some trouble with the HTML not coming through...so I'm trying RTF to see if it'll actually use the lj cut I tried to put in.
Title: The Experiment
Author: bardicsidhe
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Type: yaoi
Challenge: 2 AM (2 hours exactly)
Pairing: Honda/Ryuuji
Rating: R for cursing and suggestive language
Disclaimer: None of this is real, and I of course do not own Hiroto Honda or Ryuuji Otogi or Yu-Gi-Oh! in general, but oh, do I wish I did. And once Hiro-kun’s done obsessing, I’ll be giving him right back to Kazuki Takahashi.
Nobody sane would be up at two in the morning.
But Hiroto was.
He sat, unmoving on the end of his bed in the small room, knowing exactly what was going to happen in another four hours. In another four hours, the paint on the walls would be blue instead of black. The clothes on the floor…he’d be able to see them too, instead of the wrinkled remains of a sport sock that loomed up white amid all of the dark denim jeans and the blue polyester cotton blend uniforms. There’d be no yellow-gray bar of light on the ceiling from the street lamp that always, always, always blinded him at night and made sleep hard, no matter how tightly the curtains were closed.
In another four hours, he’d be getting up and going to school. And he’d be trying not to deal with what had just happened four hours before.
Well, no. He’d dealt with it. Privately.
Publicly, he wasn’t precisely sure how to go about dealing with another boy’s hand between his legs. And…liking it.
“Goddammit, Ryuuji!”
Hiroto was up at two in the morning for the sake of one arrogant, ponytailed bastard. He was still wearing his school uniform from yesterday. Today. Whatever. No wait. It was two in the morning, right? So it was yesterday.
Yesterday, when he and the rest of Yugi’s band of companions were crouched like chatty gargoyles on the steps of Domino High, Ryuuji with his damnable feline body had reached across Tristan’s lap for something Anzu held out. What had it been? A notebook? A photo? A bowl of ramen? The object was as unimportant as the hand reaching for it. But the hand Ryuuji braced himself on had been squarely between Hiroto’s thighs. Very close to a sensitive region that for some reason had been left unguarded to any unexpected attacks. So close that Hiroto could feel the head of his arm through the thin fabric of his slacks (but the steps were cold, so of course he’d feel anything warm. Of course).
That hadn’t exactly explained the sudden bloom of warmth on his own behalf. And the fact that Ryuuji’s smile following the compromising situation was hardly innocent. Of course, Hiroto wasn’t thinking of it in these particular terms. His expressions were more on the lines of ‘oh damn, oh damn, oh shit, now what do I do?’
He knew he liked Shizuka. He liked Shizuka a lot, actually. But if he liked Shizuka so much, then how the hell had that little sideways thought about Ryuuji and…
How had that gotten in?
He could chalk it up to an unusual situation. Nerves. He was just nervous about something.
Since when did nerves give someone a hard-on?
Oh, fuck off.
All right. So he’d experiment. He was open to the idea, after all. Hiroto wasn’t sure of what his family would think, but he was no coward, either. Now, maybe it was all his fancy and just a misremembered detail of a day that was blurred enough around the edges with biology assignments and complex geometrical proofs. If it was that, then thinking about it again surely shouldn’t give him any pro-
Hiroto looked down.
Oh. Well…shit. But since when was that some kind of sexuality barometer? Weren’t guys supposed to think about sex every ten seconds?
He ignored it. Somehow. Blanked his mind and thought of absolutely nothing sexual. The walls are blue, the sock on the floor is white, the light in the window is fucking annoying…
It went away.
Damn good start.
For the first time in several hours, Hiroto thought about getting up and changing out of his uniform. He did so slowly, sliding the jacket off and hanging it on the back of his nearby desk chair. The buttons on his dress shirt were opened in a little trepidation, almost as if he was afraid of his own body. It slid off of his shoulders, and for once, managed to hit the target of the clothes basket beside the door. With even more care, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and tugged off his socks. Not so remarkably, they made two more crumpled white pools on the otherwise dark floor.
The pants were next. Genuinely feeling a prick of fear now, he stood up, sucked in his stomach and opened the tabs, and then the zipper. Left them in a pool of concertina rings on the floor and slid his sheets back to climb into bed.
The clock across the room already blinked two-thirty. In another three and a half hours he was going to be too dead tired to deal, anyway.
Now, consciously, Hiroto brought up the image. He wasn’t a world-class scientist. The quick and dirty way worked better in this kind of a lab situation.
So he put a little spin on it. After all, it was hard to jerk off to the mental image of someone reaching for a notebook, wasn’t it?
It didn’t seem to give you any trouble earlier, a nasty little voice teased. And he told it to go with the first and fuck itself to oblivion.
Okay. He had to ease into this gently. Ryuuji had very slender hands. Almost like a girl’s, but not quite. What did he think about those hands in particular? They were…pretty. But with calluses and tendons that raised and rolled under the skin when Ryuuji was being particularly active in a conversation.
Wait. Where the hell did he get that from? All of this time and he’d been watching his hands that much? Okay. So forget the hands. No wait, he couldn’t forget the hands. One had been centimeters away from his crotch, after all. Twitch. Right, so that seemed to be the magic word, here. Gingerly, staring at the ceiling and completely unwilling to look down at himself, Hiroto hazarded a touch and thought about that hand closer than it actually had been. His imagination, restrained for oh-so-long, took over where he left off and filled in the alternate details. Ryuuji slid the other arm around his waist. Wait, no he hadn’t! What did it matter? It didn’t. Go on, go on.
The darkhaired boy’s eyes were so green…so very green…Ryuuji hadn’t been looking at Anzu. He’d been looking up at Hiroto. What was the word? Ah yes. Smoldering.
And that hand…that hand that was distinctly Ryuuji’s…was on him. Rubbing and squeezing and searching shamelessly for a way to make Hiroto Honda switch sides…
Oh, fuck.