tenipuri: may i feel said he
may i feel said he
yuushi/gakuto. 975w.
Oshitari's room looks different when the lights are down, when Mukahi's high-strung with hormones and adrenaline. The walls are closer, and everything he bumps into is cold against his overheated back. He can't see straight and this isn't a good idea but he lost the ability to care when Oshitari shoved his hand down the front of his pants.
Oshitari's glasses are in his palm. Mukahi rolls the sharp taste of alcohol on his tongue, almost bites it when Oshitari tightens his fist. Oshitari is so close that Mukahi thinks he must feel the frenetic movement of every nerve in his body. He comes, toes curling against the floor. Oshitari's other hand combs through his hair, slides down the small of his back until he balances out again.
Mukahi's body feels heavy, and his legs are still weak when he drops onto his knees to return the favor. The damp fabric of his own jeans chafes his thigh. When Mukahi mouths the crease of his groin, Oshitari withdraws. "Wait," he says.
The sudden silence rings in Mukahi's brain like brakes on rough pavement. "What?"
"We shouldn't," Oshitari says, ten minutes too late and pressed to the shadows on the wall. He pulls Mukahi back up to his feet. Something digs past Mukahi's ribcage, watered down anger and pride, bone-deep exhaustion. You started this, he doesn't say, doesn't ask: you started this, why won't you finish it?
"These are yours," Mukahi says instead, and gives Oshitari's glasses back.
Oshitari looks like for once he doesn't have the answer. "Thanks," he says.
Later, Mukahi stares at the ceiling and records the date in his head. Oshitari's spare clothes don't fit; the sweatpants slide down his hips, and the oversized button down shirt makes him feel a decade too young. In the background, the shower starts to run.
Oshitari is better than him at acting as if nothing happened. The restlessness swarms Mukahi and he bites down on his knuckles, keeps his hands relaxed to stop from driving a fist into the wall. These days, Oshitari's eyes pass right through him.
He picks a fight with Shishido behind the school. There's no art to scrapping in the dirt; they skip subtlety for fists and mouthfuls of grass, and it feels good to finally lash out. Oshitari opens his mouth when he sees the thick bruise across Mukahi's cheekbone but he doesn't say anything. Mukahi doesn't want his apologies anyway.
Afterwards, Shishido had slumped against the wall, shoving hair out of his eyes - he's started growing it out again - and said, "I'm not a punching bag for your emotional baggage, Gakuto."
"Shut up," Mukahi had said, and sank to his knees.
Tokyo winters are bright and chilly; they bite like training weights into his ankles and wrists. Bus rides home with Oshitari are friendly but awkward, like they don't know what's safe anymore. He guesses this is supposed to mean something, the looking and not-touching, the heartbeat that feels like he's been flying, and Oshitari is water, impossible to catch.
The next day, Mukahi walks.
It rains through Friday morning, and it's too dark for rainbows in the winter but Mukahi watches for one anyway, pencil eraser between his teeth and calculus buzzing in his ear. By late afternoon it's turned into snow, and Oshitari waits for him at the door after class.
"We should talk," Oshitari says.
"Okay," Mukahi says, and shoulders his schoolbag.
The hallways are crowded with students and Mukahi strains through to the nearest stairwell. He still forgets to look back sometimes and make sure Oshitari's following, after years of taking for granted that Oshitari'll be two steps behind, ready to catch him if the sky spits him back out.
On the roof, Mukahi kicks around a rock and Oshitari tries to light a cigarette, which Atobe is going to kill him for. When the flame gets snuffed out for the fifth time, Mukahi finally asks, "Are you mad at me?"
Without his glasses, Oshitari looks strange and bare, the hood of his coat pulled down low. "I'm not mad."
"Do you have a chronic fear of blowjobs?"
Oshitari blinks, slowly, everything about him always so deliberate. "No."
"Then what?" Mukahi doesn't fully understand what makes him grab Oshitari's wrist - the cloudy desire to pin Oshitari down, to stop letting Oshitari be the one holding him in place, perpetually in the motion of only getting halfway to what he wants. "Why shouldn't we? Why did we have to stop?"
The snow is hard to see through. Oshitari is a splash of watercolor on white; Mukahi wonders if he must be an oil painting and maybe that's why he and Oshitari keep slipping and sliding and never seem to fit, never seem to get anywhere, and Mukahi hates standing still like this. His skin feels raw with doubt and Oshitari's eyes, staring down at where Mukahi still hasn't let go of his hand.
When he finally tumbles his cold fingers back into his pockets, Oshitari stays where he is. "You jump too high sometimes," he says, and Mukahi leans in to hear because Oshitari has a habit of playing games but leaving out what's important, like how do I get you to stay?
"I always come back down," Mukahi says.
Oshitari shrugs. "Maybe I'm just selfish."
"Oh." Mukahi breathes out, a curl of white steam. "Well, good," he says, and reaches up.
"Good," Oshitari repeats, traps him against the chain-link fence, close enough to be dangerous and it's so much like the very first time, the cautiousness of Oshitari's mouth, the blind courage that follows. Mukahi shoves Oshitari's hood down and twists fingers through his hair.
"This isn't just sex in the dark," Oshitari says afterwards, whispers it like a warning. "I want-"
"Everything," Mukahi says.
"Yeah," Oshitari agrees, and kisses him again.
yuushi/gakuto. 975w.
Oshitari's room looks different when the lights are down, when Mukahi's high-strung with hormones and adrenaline. The walls are closer, and everything he bumps into is cold against his overheated back. He can't see straight and this isn't a good idea but he lost the ability to care when Oshitari shoved his hand down the front of his pants.
Oshitari's glasses are in his palm. Mukahi rolls the sharp taste of alcohol on his tongue, almost bites it when Oshitari tightens his fist. Oshitari is so close that Mukahi thinks he must feel the frenetic movement of every nerve in his body. He comes, toes curling against the floor. Oshitari's other hand combs through his hair, slides down the small of his back until he balances out again.
Mukahi's body feels heavy, and his legs are still weak when he drops onto his knees to return the favor. The damp fabric of his own jeans chafes his thigh. When Mukahi mouths the crease of his groin, Oshitari withdraws. "Wait," he says.
The sudden silence rings in Mukahi's brain like brakes on rough pavement. "What?"
"We shouldn't," Oshitari says, ten minutes too late and pressed to the shadows on the wall. He pulls Mukahi back up to his feet. Something digs past Mukahi's ribcage, watered down anger and pride, bone-deep exhaustion. You started this, he doesn't say, doesn't ask: you started this, why won't you finish it?
"These are yours," Mukahi says instead, and gives Oshitari's glasses back.
Oshitari looks like for once he doesn't have the answer. "Thanks," he says.
Later, Mukahi stares at the ceiling and records the date in his head. Oshitari's spare clothes don't fit; the sweatpants slide down his hips, and the oversized button down shirt makes him feel a decade too young. In the background, the shower starts to run.
Oshitari is better than him at acting as if nothing happened. The restlessness swarms Mukahi and he bites down on his knuckles, keeps his hands relaxed to stop from driving a fist into the wall. These days, Oshitari's eyes pass right through him.
He picks a fight with Shishido behind the school. There's no art to scrapping in the dirt; they skip subtlety for fists and mouthfuls of grass, and it feels good to finally lash out. Oshitari opens his mouth when he sees the thick bruise across Mukahi's cheekbone but he doesn't say anything. Mukahi doesn't want his apologies anyway.
Afterwards, Shishido had slumped against the wall, shoving hair out of his eyes - he's started growing it out again - and said, "I'm not a punching bag for your emotional baggage, Gakuto."
"Shut up," Mukahi had said, and sank to his knees.
Tokyo winters are bright and chilly; they bite like training weights into his ankles and wrists. Bus rides home with Oshitari are friendly but awkward, like they don't know what's safe anymore. He guesses this is supposed to mean something, the looking and not-touching, the heartbeat that feels like he's been flying, and Oshitari is water, impossible to catch.
The next day, Mukahi walks.
It rains through Friday morning, and it's too dark for rainbows in the winter but Mukahi watches for one anyway, pencil eraser between his teeth and calculus buzzing in his ear. By late afternoon it's turned into snow, and Oshitari waits for him at the door after class.
"We should talk," Oshitari says.
"Okay," Mukahi says, and shoulders his schoolbag.
The hallways are crowded with students and Mukahi strains through to the nearest stairwell. He still forgets to look back sometimes and make sure Oshitari's following, after years of taking for granted that Oshitari'll be two steps behind, ready to catch him if the sky spits him back out.
On the roof, Mukahi kicks around a rock and Oshitari tries to light a cigarette, which Atobe is going to kill him for. When the flame gets snuffed out for the fifth time, Mukahi finally asks, "Are you mad at me?"
Without his glasses, Oshitari looks strange and bare, the hood of his coat pulled down low. "I'm not mad."
"Do you have a chronic fear of blowjobs?"
Oshitari blinks, slowly, everything about him always so deliberate. "No."
"Then what?" Mukahi doesn't fully understand what makes him grab Oshitari's wrist - the cloudy desire to pin Oshitari down, to stop letting Oshitari be the one holding him in place, perpetually in the motion of only getting halfway to what he wants. "Why shouldn't we? Why did we have to stop?"
The snow is hard to see through. Oshitari is a splash of watercolor on white; Mukahi wonders if he must be an oil painting and maybe that's why he and Oshitari keep slipping and sliding and never seem to fit, never seem to get anywhere, and Mukahi hates standing still like this. His skin feels raw with doubt and Oshitari's eyes, staring down at where Mukahi still hasn't let go of his hand.
When he finally tumbles his cold fingers back into his pockets, Oshitari stays where he is. "You jump too high sometimes," he says, and Mukahi leans in to hear because Oshitari has a habit of playing games but leaving out what's important, like how do I get you to stay?
"I always come back down," Mukahi says.
Oshitari shrugs. "Maybe I'm just selfish."
"Oh." Mukahi breathes out, a curl of white steam. "Well, good," he says, and reaches up.
"Good," Oshitari repeats, traps him against the chain-link fence, close enough to be dangerous and it's so much like the very first time, the cautiousness of Oshitari's mouth, the blind courage that follows. Mukahi shoves Oshitari's hood down and twists fingers through his hair.
"This isn't just sex in the dark," Oshitari says afterwards, whispers it like a warning. "I want-"
"Everything," Mukahi says.
"Yeah," Oshitari agrees, and kisses him again.