FIC: Shibuya 109, Niou/Kirihara, NC17 (5/5)
Title: Shibuya 109 (5/5)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 32 000
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Eight months later, and Kirihara is more confused about Niou than ever. Sequel to Six Percent Doki Doki
Author's Notes: Written for pixxers' birthday- Happy Birthday, Pix! &hearts
This fic has been truncated into five parts due to length: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]
On the eighth floor of the 109 building is a sushi place.
They eat there.
Niou picked up the stack of yen with the help of the clerk in the store. Kirihara doesn't remember anything except standing there like a fool, laughing, because he couldn't do anything else but.
He sits hunched over his stomach to squash the tighter knots forming in his belly. The tatami is soft under his knees and there are jewel-toned sushi pieces arranged over the plates they order, wrapped up like presents with ribbons of nori. Kirihara's not hungry, but his stomach flip-flops anyway. He hasn't said anything to Niou. Niou hasn’t said anything to him, but somehow, they ended up here.
He's trying to figure things out as they eat and spend the money Marui gave him. Kirihara doesn't know what to make of that: Marui-senpai isn't exactly the most generous, selfless person around, but he hasn't called Niou's cellphone or come back for his yen. Maybe he found a cake shop in the basement and is busy stuffing his face with chocolate mocha cream pie as he and Jackal check out the chubby chicks. Kirihara doesn't know.
The shop isn't the best. It's kinda pricey and there's too many girls here, nibbling at sashimi with pearly fingernails and dainty lips. The knives of the sushi chef shines and glimmers. Glasses klink and Kirihara sips at his cup of water. The wad of bills is thick in his pocket. He's tempted to pull it out and smell them, to see if Niou rubbed off on them.
But Niou is here, with him, across the table and poking at a piece of smoked eel. Hair falls over his eyes. His words from before, I was never with Yagyuu, echo in Kirihara's ears.
He's such a fucking idiot, but at the same time, he didn't know. A million and one questions zip through Kirihara's mind, so fast that he gets a headache. The papery walls of the shop spin around him, dizzyingly fast. When something taps his foot, Kirihara jumps. His body hums from the contact as his eyes trail from his foot to the hand that touched it, up Niou's arm to his face.
His heart pounds, doki doki all over again when Niou opens his mouth. He pushes his bangs back from his face and his eyes stare into Kirihara's, dark and a little wet-looking.
No one else in the shop is paying them any attention. Niou pokes at the smoked eel with the end of his chopstick before he speaks. His voice is rough and hard to make out; Kirihara has to strain to hear.
"The fatty took you here on purpose, didn't he?" Niou asks.
Kirihara nods. "Yeah," he says. "Guess so."
Niou nods.
On the table between them, the sushi doesn’t move. Kirihara's insides slither more, tightening and twisting up. The silence is beyond awkward until Niou breaks it again with thick words.
"Why didn't you come?"
Niou's eyes burn. Kirihara shakes. His heart has fluttered into his throat and he doesn't understand anything except the sheen of pain in Niou's pupils that cuts him between the ribs, the way seeing Yagyuu with Niou did last week. The sushi roll Kirihara was peeling nori from drops from his fingers.
"What?"
"You didn't come," Niou says. His voice raises a notch until he clears his throat. A group of girls and a short guy walk in, heads held high and stinking of money with their leather and Prada shades and designer purses and manbags.
"Come where?" Kirihara asks.
A round of glasses clink at the bar counter. The waitress whisks by. Niou's head follows her and he opens his mouth for a moment, as if he's going to say something, but instead he just shakes his head. It's the same game they played for months when Niou's eyes glaze over and he mutters, "It's nothing."
Out of nowhere, Kirihara slams his fist down on the table. The plates of sushi shake and the sashimi wiggles. "Tell me!" he shouts. The sushi chef looks up from the counter and the knife in his hand glitters under the dim lights of the restaurant. Kirihara can feel his cheeks flushing, but he forces himself to get it out.
As Niou twists, hand pressed to the tatami floor as if he's going to stand up and leave, Kirihara reaches for his arm. His fingers curl around Niou's wrist, touching the neoprene wristweight, but also his warm skin. He can feel Niou's goosepimples and Kirihara shivers too.
Niou tugs. Kirihara yanks. "Why don't you tell me anything?" he hisses.
The arm under his fingers goes slack. Niou kneels back down, keeps his head down, but he reaches out to touch his tennisbag. There, on the zipper, is his own beat-up unicorn charm from Six Percent Doki Doki. The painted smile has been hacked away and the horn is bent. It can't speak and it's hurt.
A bit like the both of them.
"I was the tutor," Niou says. He lifts his eyes. Kirihara's jaw drops.
"I was your math tutor."
Kirihara tries to breathe. He tries to stay all calm and collected the way the Yanagi voice is in his head, but there is a lump pressing so hard against the base of his throat that he has to gulp at the air. He's the biggest fucking fool ever.
Kirihara's chin drops to his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut and he balls his fist, but this time, he doesn't slam his hand down. Again and again, he curls and uncurls his fingers until some sort of feeling returns, beyond the fierce shame coursing through his limbs, berating him for being such a complete idiot.
"I'm sorry," Kirihara mutters, but no sound comes from his lips. The apology is so stale and he doesn't know how to make things right. He's never understood Niou and this is exactly why. They don't have whatever it is they need to be together.
A shudder in his chest makes his body twitch. Kirihara's eye twitches, too, and he can't take his eyes off Niou when he looks up. Niou cocks his head to the side, but his posture is limp and defeated. His shoulders are slumped, not hunched, and he's barely touched his sushi too.
It was all a waste.
Guilt pricks Kirihara's insides, vaguely, for spending Marui's money. Even more guilt slices through his belly for not knowing that Niou waited there, all those days, and Kirihara couldn't be bothered to show up once to math tutoring. He's bleeding on the inside and he can taste the blood in the back of his mouth. It floods over his tongue in a wave and he wants to puke.
Niou deserves so much more than a dumb kid like him.
Now, Kirihara has nothing to lose.
He stares at the plate of sushi. He picks up one of the prawns and pulls the tail off. His heart is caught in his throat, held by the stupid invisible red cord that ties him to Niou, but not the other way around. The thick lump grows bigger and bigger and his foot tingles, having fallen asleep. Kirihara ignores it.
"I really liked you," he murmurs. "I liked you a lot senpai and-"
"What are you saying?" Niou asks. His nostrils flare and he's breathing hard. His eyes are wide and alive, the whites blazing behind black pupils that reflect the grimace on Kirihara's face.
"I…" Kirihara winces. It’s harder than he thought, to say the words to Niou face-to-face.
"…I thought we broke up…"
Niou's pale face whitens. Nothing is left except bluish veins through his glassy cheeks.
Kirihara realizes he's made a horrible, horrible second mistake when Niou's hand shakes so hard it slips off the table. A flood of overwhelming feelings spills up from his gut and Kirihara lunges across the table. Blood rushes through his body and through his skull, pulsing behind his eyes, but not in the bloodshot way. There is a dull echo of a sushi plate crashing to the floor by Niou's knee. The other is under Kirihara's side, the raw fish grinding into his shirt when he moves and grabs Niou by the arms. He holds tight, digging in until Niou doesn’t squirm anymore, although he does twist his head away.
"You didn't want this in the first place," Niou says.
Kirihara digs his fingers in deeper. Niou hisses. Kirihara clenches his jaw and bares his teeth. He shakes and Niou shivers. Under bleached bangs, Kirihara can see sweat beading on Niou's forehead. Niou sniffs, forcing a little laugh that cuts Kirihara even deeper.
"You're not like me," Niou says.
Kirihara grabs at Niou and Niou lets him, Niou lets himself be pulled up by his collar. Kirihara is about ready to slam Niou into the floor until he relents and…he doesn't know what. He's not thinking straight. The blood rushing through his body, pulsing behind every pore is alive and sensitized and he's hard against Niou's thigh and part of him just wants to crush Niou.
The other part of him wants to kiss Niou's trembling mouth hard enough to prove he's dead serious.
But right before the conflicting emotions swirl up and cloud Kirihara's judgment even more, the waitress stops them.
"Excuse me," she says. "I'm afraid you'll both need to leave the premises. The chef has kindly asked that you refrain from-"
Before she finishes, Kirihara lets go of Niou. Niou snorts and chucks his chin up at her, his blasé resolve instantly reappearing. It makes warm fuzzies start to multiply inside Kirihara. This is the Niou he knows, not the hurt, pale person who he just grabbed and shook like a ragdoll. Niou grabs his bags first, tossing down a couple bills from his pocket. The chains on his belt jingle and he makes a point to knock into the waitress on his way out. Kirihara scrambles, right behind, grabbing his bags and trying to be indifferent too, though his face is on fire and he winces and forces a laugh out of habit.
"Fuck this," Niou mutters.
"Yeah," Kirihara says.
They both get onto the escalator-no place left to go except down. A wave of relief washes over Kirihara when they finally step outside of the 109 building. His shoulders relax with Niou at his side, even if the tension never leaves completely. Niou's back is to him, silhouetted against the array of lights and ads and the hundred million colours of Shibuya that dance in Niou's hair.
They start to walk aimlessly, with no direction, the way Niou would back home through the subway arcades when they were together. The clubs have started pulling out their sandwich boards, announcing drinks and prices and deals for the ladies. Girls in stilettos and glittery dresses mill on the packed streets, illuminated like the sky with the rainbow of signs in the area. Some of them work on para para moves on the pavement, arms flapping and feet shuffling. Bars are alive with throbbing techno music and the smell of fried food and beer fills the air. Kirihara breathes it in deep, but the unsettled feeling in his stomach remains.
He doesn't let Niou out of his sight. Niou ducks down an alleyway and the crowds begin to thin out here as the shops and bars lead into seedier areas. Kirihara runs, his bags bouncing hard against his back. "Sen-pai!" he shouts. His voice cracks, but he doesn't care.
He's serious about this, whether Niou gets it or not.
The alleyways are darker, haunted with the sounds of tin cans and distant roaring engines from scooters and the rattling train tracks. In front of a glowing vending machine, Niou stops. He lingers long enough over the drinks for Kirihara to catch up in a rush of panting and his flatting, squeezing heart.
"I'm serious," he says.
Niou blinks, but he keeps staring at the cans of pepsi and fanta, milk tea and iced coffee. His hand hovers over the buttons, but presses none. He makes no decisions. Kirihara's stomach slithers in that way his gut knows he's going to act before his brain does. His toes tingle-just a bit-remnants of falling asleep before.
He takes Niou's hand in his own, cupping them both around Niou's fingers. Niou's skin is warm and clammy, but his hand freezes when Kirihara tries to weave their fingers together.
Niou's lips part with a silent sigh and his chest shudders. Kirihara squeezes his hands around Niou's tighter. He doesn’t know what he's doing when he takes the hand and brings it to his own lips, only that it feels right to press a dry kiss to the top of Niou's palm.
Niou closes his eyes. Kirihara kisses his hand again. His insides melt, but the night isn't very warm, just Niou's skin under his lips, under his tongue, tasting of salt-sweat and slight fish from the sushi. He lifts his eyes to Niou, who has stumbled into the vending machine. Niou's mouth moves, but he doesn’t make a sound, except for the scuffle of their sneakers.
"Akaya."
His lips form the single word that Kirihara has been waiting to hear for nine months.
For being so confused before this year, Kirihara isn't anymore.
***
Nearby, the streets are busier and the blinking façades of buildings greet them, one cement block followed by another in fake brick, followed by two more in cement. There are iron gates and huge signs above their heads. People keep their heads low, here, and Kirihara feels naked without a pair of shades to cover his eyes.
But not naked enough to really care.
They pass another vending machine. Gone are the fantas and pepsis. Instead, they are replaced with something a little more physical in the labeled boxes inside. Kirihara's heart throbs when he stops at one. Niou holds his breath-he leans against the wall kiddy-corner past a row of cement pylons where a single bicycle is parked. Kirihara swallows hard as he inserts one of the bills. There are too many choices: lubricated, extra large, intense pleasure, ribbed. He's forgotten to breathe and his hand shakes over the choices.
In the end, Kirihara presses the first button his finger hits.
Intense pleasure.
He's dreamed about this, sure, but the reality is totally different. In reality, they walk up the paved road, a block or two more up the slight incline of a hilly street filled with love hotels. There's a ramen joint to his right, hot bowls of noodles steaming up in the night air.
His dick is swollen hard with thoughts of being naked, with Niou, by themselves in a room. It's difficult to walk, the deeper they go into the neighbourhood. Kirihara slows his pace. Niou's one step behind-he says nothing, but he doesn't leave either.
A blinking sandwich board announces Hotel Carcassone, price, 6800 for a stay. No one enters the doors. No one is around, for the moment, though there were couples strolling arm-in-arm behind them a moment ago. There are enough bills in Kirihara's pockets to pay for it, he knows. His hands are cold and he can't feel his fingers. The hotel has a cement front, with fake turrets on either end that look more like cardboard than dungeons and dragons.
Niou looks at him. His mouth is set in a line as his eyes go up and up, taking in the fake mortar and the crenulations running across the roofline like icing tufts. He shrugs his shoulders and toes the sandwich board.
It'll do.
Kirihara pays at the self-check-in. Luckily, there is no clerk behind a frosted pane of glass to tell them no fags allowed. He picks the room from a series of images on the touch-screen-the rooms all look the same anyway. Bed, shower, bathroom, tv, fridge. It doesn't really matter.
They have eight hours.
Niou locks the door to the room behind them.
There is a huge mural of a dragon on the wall and a large bed in the middle. Kirihara's eyes immediately shift to the doorways for a bathroom, and a toilet room, that are covered in fake wood paneling and plastic chains to look like drawbridges. If he wasn't so nervous, he might laugh. Since his knees wobble already, he laughs anyway.
Niou sets his bags down, slowly lifting them down from his shoulders into a heap on the floor. He doesn't move from the perimeter of the room, instead he trails his fingers over the tv and the fridge. He opens the door and grunts.
Kirihara peers over his shoulder.
There aren't snacks in the fridge-it's filled with purple dildos and green plugs and beads and handcuffs and even a ball gag that Niou pulls out to dangle with a raised eyebrow.
"Uh," Kirihara says. He chews on hit bottom lip. Niou's eyes are dark and hot, making Kirihara's insides turn into a sort of melty-goo. "I don't think that's my thing, senpai…"
A ghost of a smile plays at Niou's lips. Kirihara's heart stops pounding for a beat, and then he shivers. Crouching, Niou stands up and brushes off the front of his uniform pants that he's been wearing all evening. Kirihara doesn't stop himself from looking down and noticing the strain at Niou's crotch, despite the low-slung pants and the studded belt holding them up on his hips.
Niou wants this.
Niou wants him.
His mouth goes dry, but before he can say anything, Niou sidles past him, slipping into the bathroom without a word. The door clicks shut, and then the sound of water rushing-the shower-follows. Kirihara presses his ear to the door. Listening, he can make out the muffled sounds of clothes rustling and then a heavy sigh.
Kirihara pulls away from the door. He might be dumb, but he's not a complete idiot. He knows what showers mean-or at least, his body does. A feverish flush blooms over his arms and face, spreading down his belly to his dick. Kirihara swallows. He leans on the wall and closes his eyes, cupping a hand over his dick. His fingertips can feel the pulse of his erection pumping hard and hot with blood through his pants. He rubs the bulge, moaning under his breath. He stuffs his hand down under his waistband, his dick needing more friction, more contact than what he's been doing. Kirihara stumbles to the side. His hand clenches around his aching cock and he hisses as the pleasure ripples through his limbs, making his legs unsteady and tremble. Kirihara stiffens as the waves of pleasure flood his belly, and inside tightens up and melts all at once. He pulls at himself. The pants constrict his hand and he can't stop clenching his legs, so he widens them. He bites his lip to keep from moaning too loud.
His foot catches the floor the wrong way. It sends him tumbling into the headboard of the bed. Kirihara shrieks. The side of his head smacks the headboard-okay, he's hit himself a thousand times before being a klutz.
Only before, the Yamanote line train music never started to play as the sharp pain erupts through his skull.
Kirihara blinks. He rolls onto his stomach, smushing his hand under the weight of his body. His dick keeps swelling, hard and aching. The headboard is covered in buttons: tv, air conditioning, train music for fifteen different lines in the Kantou region…
His brow furrows when he thinks about why the hell people would get off to train music in a love hotel with a dragon painted on the wall. His skull throbs, faintly, but mostly his dick demands attention. All thoughts slither into his belly when he humps the mattress, rubbing and straining in his pants.
He doesn't notice the rush of the shower spray stopping.
He doesn't notice the doorway to the bathroom opening.
He doesn't notice Niou, standing there in a white terry bathroom until Niou clears his throat and asks, "Enjoying yourself?"
Kirihara sucks in a breath. He whips his head around so fast that he nearly creams his skull on the headboard a second time. He winces, but Niou never laughs at him. Kirihara remembers his hand is down his pants. Carefully, he extracts it with as much dignity as he can muster-which isn’t much, since his face is on fire and he can swear that there's a sheen of precome on his fingers.
A laugh forces its way up out of his twisted stomach into the tense air between them. Kirihara tries to stop it by biting down harder on his lip, but it only makes things worse. The mattress creaks under Niou's weight when he sits down at the end of the bed. Kirihara moves to get up, to bolt, to splash his burning face with water and try to get a grip on himself before Niou laughs at him for masturbating-
But Niou grabs his hand first.
Kirihara freezes. Niou's long fingers wrap around his wrist, pinning him in place when Niou looks at him. His hair is darker when it's wet and without his hair wax, it's flatter, too. It parts at his forehead in an even line running back on his scalp, a bit like Yagyuu, but not quite. His eyes, though…his black, big eyes stare into Kirihara's. They never break contact when Niou takes Kirihara's hand to his mouth. He rubs his cheek on Kirihara's fingers, kissing his palm with dry, lingering presses that collect in Kirihara's balls.
He shudders. He tries to yank his hand away. He tries to insist that it's gross and weird and he's sorry, he'll go shower now, but Niou is on the offensive. Shocked, Kirihara sits on top of the bed like a lump as Niou pushes his fingers through his lips. A hot, wet tongue swirls around his fingertips, sending electric jolts down Kirihara's legs. He twitches. He squirms. He finally reacts with a weird little noise in the back of his throat.
Kirihara blushes. Hard. "Senpai," he says. "Senpai, that's…" weird…
Niou sucks on his fingers, pulling them in and out of his mouth. His head bobs. Kirihara's eyes pop out of his head when it hits him like a rock to the brain just what it looks like Niou is doing.
His mouth drops.
It is just enough to make Niou drop his hand. It falls slack to the bed as Niou leans over, crawls over, crawls up Kirihara's chest. Their noses brush. Niou's wet hair tickles Kirihara's jaw as Niou rubs his head, making strange little noises, like purrs, but different. He breathes over Kirihara's face, murmuring words that Kirihara will forget later, but in the moment, they sound right.
They sound really right.
Kirihara turns his head. Niou bumps his cheek, and their mouths search each other out. Kirihara sighs into the kiss when their lips finally meet. It's been so long that kissing Niou again almost feels new. His stomach is melting into the mattress as Niou leans into his body, slowly resting more and more of his weight against Kirihara until they are pressed thigh to thigh and chest to chest. Kirihara touches the back of Niou's neck-the skin is soft and damp, pliable under his fingers when he rubs circles, encouraging Niou to tilt his head up higher.
This is good, Kirihara thinks. He has a face full of Niou. He has Niou over him, moving and shifting under his bathrobe. Kirihara's hands fumble between them. Niou pulls back in a slimy trail and gasps. Kirihara tries again, grabbing onto an end of the tie and loosening it. Again, Niou squirms, jerking to the side and hunching over his stomach in a wide-eyed grimace.
Kirihara scratches at his head, mentally. He shifts his eyes around. There's nothing funny, not really, unless he counts the telephone in the shape of a weird, long green cucumber.
The more he thinks about that, the more Kirihara can see the telephone taking shape. It's not a cucumber so much as a misshapen dick, but that's not what Niou is laughing over. He's laughing because Kirihara's other hand is on his hip, roaming faintly over the bathrobe and Niou is ticklish.
Biting his lip on a grin, Kirihara dives. He attacks Niou with his hands, rubbing and poking his sides under Niou is on his knees above Kirihara, gasping and heaving and shaking his head as he laughs. "No!" he says. "Stop-Akaya, stop!"
It just makes Kirihara laugh too. His heart patters at the sound of hearing his name on Niou's lips-he loves it. He loves the way Niou speaks in that long, western sort of accent that no one at school has ever totally figured out. He loves the way Niou gasps and pants and flips onto his back to try to get away.
The opportunity is perfect.
Kirihara pounces.
Niou's skin is pale and white under the robe, which bunches up under his body as Kirihara pushes it away. He does his best to be hot and sexy and suave, licking Niou's neck with long strokes from his tongue, but when Niou jerks his shoulder up and grunts, it's not so sexy with his own saliva back on his nose, slightly more stale.
Before, the furthest they ever got was handjobs in the clubhouse or behind the tool shed. Now, with foil-wrapped condoms on top of the pillows and in the candy dish on the table, with the knowledge that they are alone for eight hours, with Niou gasping and straining underneath him, Kirihara knows that they're going to go all the way.
It scares him.
It excites him.
Like, this whole being with Niou did in the first place. Butterflies erupt in his stomach and his hands shake on Niou's skin when he touches Niou's nipples. They stiffen under his touch. Niou moans. Kirihara presses his knee between Niou's legs, rubbing his dick on Niou's bare thigh. They're so close now, but at the same time, Kirihara's clothes are still a barrier. Hands over his back pull at his shirt. Hands run down his spine to tug at his pants and fumble with the belt. Kirihara stiffens. He arches forward into Niou's hands that tremble on his belt, the metal catching and then his breath, too, when the belt releases. Niou shoves Kirihara's pants down. Kirihara shoves his nerves down. His head swims. The air is thick with the sounds of their moans, and the wet slickness of their mouths, meeting again and again. Tongues touch and dance and play, back and forth like a tennis rally. Kirihara's never been drunk, but he feels it right now. His body moves and his head lolls. He groans. He bites on Niou's bottom lip, harder and harder. The desire is primal and unexplainable, but he wants to mark Niou as his now.
You're not Yagyuu's! Kirihara wants to scream. He wants to carve his name into Niou's shuddering belly. He wants to lick his initials into Niou's neck. He wants to scratch his ownership onto Niou's back, but instead, Niou does it for him.
"Akaya!" he whispers. His words turn into a drawn out moan, vibrating over Kirihara's tongue when he kisses Niou hard enough they both stop breathing. His heart pounds on his ribs, the doki doki breaking his bones with its force. Kirihara ducks his head, dragging his teeth over Niou's chest and nipples. He mewls under Kirihara when teeth scrape his nipple. They harden in Kirihara's mouth as he sucks.
He could never be with a girl now, not with Niou aggressive and moaning underneath him, moving and flopping like a fish. Skin slippery with sweat makes the friction of their bodies all the more delicious. The bed shakes. The mattress bounces. Niou hooks a leg around the back of Kirihara's thigh-his erection is a brand on Kirihara's thigh. Niou wants this. Niou likes this. Niou is humping his knee and his head is thrown back on the pillow, lips moving with Kirihara's name on them.
Niou's buttery skin is like a drug. Kirihara can't stop touching him, but it is Niou who takes Kirihara's hand in his and guides it down to his dick. At first, Kirihara hisses and pulls away instinctively. He doesn't remember Niou's dick as that hard or that swollen before. He doesn't remember touching Niou's pubes and cupping Niou's balls, rubbing them and rolling them between his fingers. Niou's legs spread wider. He makes a guttural noise that cloys to Kirihara's skin and ears and his mind is clogged with a hundred thousand glimpses of Niou, naked and writhing for him.
Not Yagyuu.
It isn’t Yagyuu who slips a hand between Niou's legs. It isn't Yagyuu who kisses the side of Niou's neck, and his mole, and his fluttering eyelids. It isn't Yagyuu who holds Niou's cock in his tight fist when Niou suddenly jerks and his back breaks and he's coming, hot and shuddering into a hotter grip.
It's Kirihara.
And it's Kirihara who licks Niou's come off his hands. It tastes weird-and leaves a bad aftertaste, but seeing Niou's flushed body shake a little as he settles back on the bed, seeing the faintest of smiles cross his swollen lips, hearing his name and then feeling Niou's listless hand cup his ear and stroke his hair?
"I like your stupid seaweed hair," Niou murmurs. His black eyes are little more than slits. Hair plasters his forehead and there are sweat beads on his upper lip. Kirihara licks his lips, despite the brief flush of anger that rises at the nickname.
"Akaya," Niou says. He closes his eyes and moans, pulling Kirihara into his arms. Kirihara allows himself to fall, just a bit, into Niou's sticky embrace. His body is still tight with desire and tension coils up like a spring in his belly, behind his balls. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he looks down at Niou, who looks up at him with a glazed, content look that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.
"Hn?" Niou asks. "Puri?" he offers. Then, Niou offers his hand, too. Fingertips trace Kirihara's hip, trailing the bone down down down. Kirihara sucks his stomach in when Niou touches him, a tight hand around his tighter cock. His legs shake, his toes curl and Kirihara shakes his head.
"No," he mumbles. Niou's head is in his face. Niou's hands are all over his back again, splayed across his shoulders and rubbing, teasing. Niou lifts himself, pressing their bodies together and he leg wraps around in just the right way that their dicks brush, their balls brush. Kirihara's eyes practically roll back into his head. A long moan escapes his lips. His skin is on fire. His balls are so tight he feels that he's going to explode if Niou keeps rubbing against that sweet, sweet spot and lighting fireworks over his senses.
Niou kisses the side of Kirihara's neck. His mouth is hot and slow, leaving a slimy trail over his skin that makes Kirihara itch and shiver all at the same time. He jerks. His dick jerks. His thighs are shaking and straining and his toes keep digging into the sheets, bunching them up at the foot of the bed. Niou moves over him, around him. He's everywhere and Kirihara can't drink enough of his kisses. Grabbing the back of Niou's head, he yanks, forcing Niou's mouth back to him.
Somewhere in the course of things, Niou grabs one of the condom packets they had been rolling around on. Kirihara's head bumps the headboard as Niou scrambles off him for a moment. And, for an instant, Kirihara's insides go cold at the sound of the packet being open and Niou fumbling.
Is he…?
Not once have they discussed it. Not once have either one of them said what to do, they've just done it. With the blood rushing back to his head, not to his dick, the world of the love hotel room weighs down with reality. The digital clock with the liquid numbers ticks softly. The dim lights seem to bounce off Niou's skin, catching the beads of sweat and the red marks: hickies, scratches, bruises. Kirihara doesn't remember making the dark purple blush on the base of Niou's neck. It stands out on his pale skin, a possessive brand that makes Kirihara feel proud and kinda weird and twisted all at once.
His breathing is harsh in the silence between them. Niou turns away. His damp hair sticks up at odd angles. Kirihara balls his hand to keep from touching it. Goosepimples spread fast over his body when Niou lifts his eyes. The word holds on Kirihara's tongue, Senpai… and he doesn’t get it out.
Because, first, Niou's fingers make quick work, rolling the condom back onto his dick.
Kirihara's dick.
He stiffens. Niou looks at him, staring hard into Kirihara's shaking vision. He climbs onto Kirihara's lap and sinks down, rubbing and rocking his hips. Niou throws his head back, exposing his neck to Kirihara's teeth. He can't stop himself from dragging his lips, tongue, teeth over Niou's neck. He tastes the sweat of Niou's skin and his heavy pulse, beating on his lips as he kisses it away. Niou moans. Palms spread over Kirihara's nipples clench and release, over and over, pulling and tugging Kirihara's skin until it hurts. Kirihara hisses.
The rhythmic motions of their bodies build as the tension increases, swelling and burning as Kirihara pushes back, his dick between Niou's legs. The heat is incredible and delicious. He can't get enough and he thrusts, his dick so close, but not quite.
Tonight, they're going to do it.
Kirihara should be terrified. But instead, he stops thinking. He stops thinking about where to put his hand and what to do about the shaking in his legs. He stops thinking about if Niou likes his moans or if his dick's bent or funny looking. He stops thinking about everything except the overwhelming sensations of Niou on him, around him, over him and Kirihara dives.
Blood rushes through his body as he pushes Niou to the side, to the bed. It creaks. The sheets bunch, kicked up when Kirihara slings his legs. It's awkward and unnatural for a moment as they move themselves. Niou lifts a leg. His eyes have widened, but the warm blackness hasn't left. "This okay?" he asks.
Kirihara swallows. Niou is spread out for him. It can't be comfortable and Niou winces when Kirihara tries to push forward. He apologizes, automatic, but the words dissolve into a moan when his dick rubs against Niou's ass, so close to that incredible, hot tightness inside. Kirihara stops breathing. He can feel the barrier start to break. Niou mewls. He groans. Something breaks inside himself and Kirihara can't stop sliding in. He's consumed. His blood is on fire, boiling behind his eyes and his heart slams into his ribs, bursting out of his chest and bleeding all over Niou's thrown-back gasps. This feels so damn fucking good.
It lasts moments.
It lasts forever.
The first time he comes inside Niou, his dick exploding from Niou clenching his ass, once or twice, it doesn't matter. Kirihara can't last long, not with the pleasure at breaking point, flooding through his body in a crashing wave. He grunts. He thrusts. Niou shifts and moans. Kirihara shudders, pushing himself to the hilt over and over and over until he's spent himself.
Sticky and boneless, he lies on Niou's chest. Their bodies are covered in sweat-whose, it doesn't matter--and come-whose, it still doesn't matter either. Niou's chest rises and falls in shaking breaths. The corners of his eyes are wet. Kirihara presses a fingertip to them, half-smiling tentatively when Niou squeezes them shut. He wipes the wetness across Niou's cheeks, then kisses off the rest. Niou's hands don't move from Kirihara's sides-it's almost as if Niou can't let go, that Niou is clinging to him and it makes Kirihara swallow a thick lump in his throat.
The first thing Kirihara asks is, "Was it okay?" His voice is thick and quiet, the words barely audible, even to himself. He swallows a hard lump when Niou doesn't answer. Time ticks away. Kirihara can almost make out the sound of a revving scooter outside, somewhere, three floors to the ground.
Niou sighs. The casual arm draped over Kirihara's back curls tighter and he closes his eyes. Niou's face is still flushed, then the blush darkens a bit when he nods once. "Yeah," he whispers. "You're all right, kid."
Kirihara blinks. Then he smacks Niou across the head. "Oi!" he shouts.
Niou chucks a pillow into his ear. He laughs as Kirihara ducks, and swings again, direct hit that makes Kirihara wobble on his knees and collapse right back down on top of Niou with an "Oomph!"
Niou traps Kirihara in a headlock. His eyes dance in the dim, gilded light and his crooked smile makes Kirihara's stomach hot. He ruffles the top of Kirihara's head, only this time, Kirihara doesn't really mind. He shoves Niou away, but he can't stop his own laughter either.
They fall back onto the bed. The sheets are damp under their bodies, and they smell musky and sweaty. Niou moves on Kirihara's side, rubbing his cheek near Kirihara's armpit. He makes a noise and pretends to purr. Kirihara blinks-he's never seen Niou this relaxed, enough for Niou to close his eyes on Kirihara's arm. Niou's breathing evens out. His body is warm, but not really all the comfortable. Kirihara shifts a bit, trying to ignore the numb tingle in his arm as it falls asleep.
His stomach growls. He tries to ignore that too, but he fails all over again.
The second thing Kirihara asks is, "Do you have any food?" He cringes a bit when Niou cracks an eye open and raises an eyebrow.
"Piyo," Niou says. His nonsense words make Kirihara feel all fluttery inside. Niou flings his legs over the edge of the bed. Long arms stretch out into the arm above him. He scratches his back and looks back over his shoulder at Kirihara. "Got some snacks in my bag," he says.
They pad to the mess of tennisbags and backpacks. Niou crouches down first. Kirihara drinks in the sight of Niou's naked back and the crunched curves of his butt, feet sticking out from underneath. But then Niou stops for a moment. Kirihara follows the line of Niou's gaze over to his own tennisbag. He scratches his scalp. Niou frowns. Slowly, he turns away, but the frown doesn't fall when he fumbles with the zip on his bag.
There's been too much not said and too many misunderstandings. Kirihara balls his fist with resolve. No! he thinks. He grabs Niou by the shoulder and spins him around. Niou may already be naked, but the widened flash in his eyes makes him even more exposed.
"What?" Kirihara asks.
Niou looks at him. The deer-in-the-headlights look fades as he avoids Kirihara's eyes. Niou snorts. He rummages around his tennisbag and pulls out a can of melon fanta. The edges are dinged. Kirihara shoves it away. He grabs Niou a second time, dragging Niou up to his height. He slings his arm around Niou's hip and their bodies slam together, hard and physical when Kirihara curls his lip. "What?" he snaps. "Why don't you tell me anything?"
The fanta can drops to the floor. Niou's Adam's Apple bobs. He breathes through his nose. Between their bodies, Kirihara can feel the hard, hard press of an erection and it excites him, sending sparks of anticipation through his own gut. He tightens his arm around Niou, demanding an answer with their bodies.
"Your charm's gone," Niou says.
Invisible bugs crawl across Kirihara's scalp. He scratches them and blinks, taken aback with surprise and confusion. "Eh?"
Niou nods his head to the side, his body going limp in Kirihara's hold. He mutters "Puri" under his breath, then in a voice a shade higher he mumbles, "The unicorn on your bag."
He won't meet Kirihara's eyes.
Kirihara lets go. He shakes his head. No, you're all wrong, senpai! he wants to say, but he says nothing. Silence condenses. On the wall, the painted dragon stares at them with beady eyes. The whiskers around it's face and the dark colour make it look more like a catfish, leering and smirking at them in all their grand misunderstanding of each other and what they have together.
Kirihara unzips his tennisbag. The charm pops out, hidden on the other side of the zip. A visible tension releases from Niou's shoulders. He touches his forehead and shakes his head. "So stupid," he whispers. Niou laughs a little, just to cut the weirdness of it all. Kirihara does too. He touches Niou's arm and brushes his thumb over Niou's hand, pulling it away from his face so that he can see Niou's dark eyes once more.
"I…." Kirihara bites his lip. He sighs, but he doesn't look away. Niou's sighs, too, his lips parting. He licks his lips. Kirihara digs deep for courage, even though he's shaking inside and his blood rushes through his ears and wormy floaters cloud his vision. He blinks, quickly, before he does anything lame and girly.
"I…wanna try harder," Kirihara says.
A warm hand snakes around the back of Kirihara's neck, fingers toying with the curls back there. Niou nods. "Me too," Niou whispers. He leans in close, closing the distance between them.
"Me too," he says again. Niou kisses the promise into Kirihara's lips.
Kirihara kisses him back.
***
The problem with love hotels is that you can't get back in.
At 1:09am, after having sex again and drinking the melon fanta (together!) in bed and eating the only two energy bars Kirihara had in his tennisbag, he and Niou crawl outside to get some ramen. The joint across the street and down a block is open. A yawning waitress serves them pork ramen, regular-size, that they slurp down in minutes. Niou belches. Kirihara licks the salty broth from his lips.
They walk back to the love hotel when Niou says, "How do we get back in to get our bags?"
Kirihara blinks. He'd never thought that far ahead. His body is so sensitized that each step, the rub of clothes on his skin, kissed and touched all over by Niou, he can't stop thinking about anything save for the primal writhing of their bodies, together, on that bed in the room with the painted dragon-catfish on the wall.
In the end, going for food was a waste of another 6800 yen to use the same room and pray their tennisbags are still there.
They are.
Kirihara sighs with relief. Niou sets the room keys down on top of the fridge. They jingle. His chains jingle when he peels his pants back off. In moments, they are naked on that bed-not even the sheets have been changed yet. Remnants of their earlier sex stain the bunched sheets and the mattress conforms to the motions of their bodies when Kirihara kisses Niou's belly and Niou licks the inside of Kirihara's shaking thigh.
They have sex until they can't anymore. Kirihara whimpers when he comes. It hurts to move in Niou's ass. Niou begs him to stop, he can't take it anymore and he shudders, shivers and shakes under Kirihara with his arm thrown over his face, hand in his mouth and bitten.
After, they use the very last of Marui's money to watch a pay-per-view porno. Kirihara falls asleep halfway through. He wakes at an indeterminate hour to the feeling of hands stroking his hair, combing it back from his face. He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to breathe evenly. Niou leans down and presses his lips to Kirihara's forehead.
"I love you, you bugger," he mutters.
Kirihara doesn't fall back to sleep a second time. He lays awake until Niou dozes off and he can bring himself to say those three words in return. Niou's sleeping face twitches into a half-smile, but Kirihara lets it slide.
***
An alarm goes off at seven.
Niou's cellphone sings-some jazz-y ringtone, like ringtone seventeen. Niou flies awake with a strangled gasp, but when he looks around, he blinks. Sleepy confusion softens his face when he scratches his bum. Kirihara rolls over and checks the hotel clock.
"Aw, shit," he says. "We got school soon. We're not going to get back in time."
Niou flings up pairs of pants and shirts, socks and underpants and a random wristweight. Kirihara looks down at his wrists-it's one of his. He velcroes it back on when Niou pulls out his pants pockets.
"We have no money," he says. "Puri."
"Aw, shit," Kirihara says a second time. Then, in a flash of brilliance, he snaps his fingers. "We could just skip," he says. "We could-"
Niou shakes his head. He's pulling on his underpants and hobbling around the room. He hobbles into the headboard and the train station music for the Chuo line starts to chime. "I got a math exam at eleven. Can't miss it, kid."
"Well…" Kirihara frowns. He scratches his forehead. He rubs his chin. "What do we do?" he asks. "We have no money to get back home."
Pausing mid-button on his shirt (rumpled, one button missing when Kirihara ripped it off at two thirty am after ramen), Niou blows at the hair falling in his eyes. Without his hair tie, he looks more disheveled than usual. The bags under his eyes and the lethargic, sleepy droop make him look like he's been up half the night having sex.
And when Kirihara sees that purple bruise on the base of Niou's neck, it's more than obvious that Niou has been up half the night having sex.
"You got anyone who can drive?" Niou asks. "Like your sister, or something?"
***
A white Toyota pulls up from the Shuto Expressway Number three, just outside the Tokyu Department store. Niou slouches and gives Kirihara a skeptical eyebrow. Kirihara's already cringing before the driver's-side door flings opens.
His sister stomps out in all her 155cm glory. She's in a pajama top and jeans and her boobs bounce, because she's not wearing a bra. Her face is red and her eyes, too. The stupid Chihuahua bobble head in the rear window of the car nods its head at Kirihara and Niou. The dangling pink charms on the rear-view mirror sway. The Toyota is still running as his sister starts to shout.
"Where the HELL were you last night, moron?" she shrieks. "What the hell? Mom made me drive all the way to fucking SHIBUYA at this buttfuck hour to pick you up because you got lost again?!" She flaps her arms and seethes. Steam curls up from her hair-it's a rat's nest, just like Kirihara's.
Kirihara growls. "I am not lost!" he shouts, right back at her. Her eyes go wide and she purses her lips until they go white. They pace around each other and breathe down each other's necks: a standoff.
Niou whistles behind them. A car driving by honks. His sister's illegally parked and even though she's gotta know it, she whips her demon head around 360 degrees to glare at the driver.
The police car drives off quickly. Even he's scared shit of her.
"Oh yeah?" she asks. "Then what the hell did mom make me come here for?"
Kirihara grinds his teeth. Behind him, Niou scuffs his sneaker on the pavement. The city workers are out with the sweepers and garbage trucks, ferrying away the night's trash in preparation for the morning crush of salarymen and OLs coming to work before the whole cycle repeats again.
"We just didn't have enough money!" Kirihara snaps. "Okay? Jeez!" Under his breath, he adds, "Stupid bitch."
Behind him, Niou snorts. Kirihara's sister's eyes blaze with fury in Niou's direction, killing him dead with one Medusa look. Niou stands there and yawns, pretending not to notice. She turns back to Kirihara and sneers. Her eyes are bloodshot and her teeth have grown into fangs as she spits and yells.
"Oh yeah? 'We'? What? Out all night with your boyfriend?" She laughs, but when Kirihara butts in and says, in her face, "Yeah, I was!" she stops.
Kirihara steps back in shock. His jaw drops open.
Niou's eyes are wide and huge. He drops his rat tail that he was toying with between his thumb and index finger.
But instead of his sister shouting back with something even snarkier or meaner or a threat to tell their parents if they don't pay her, her eyes glaze over with the matte glow of red romanji letters and the white façade across the scramble crossing.
Her voice drops ten notches and it's full of breathy wonder when she whispers, "Is that Shibuya 109?"
She wanders off into the glittering morning sun, her eyes alive for only one beacon in the world. Niou's cellphone goes off a second time, only this time, he flips it open and answers it. "Hn…yeah…okay…yeah." Four noncommittal answers to whoever called, then he flips it closed and stuffs it back into his pocket along with his hands. Niou rocks back on the heels of his sneakers. He seems okay, now that Kirihara's dumb sister has gone off to shop.
"Yukimura says you owe him a game," Niou says.
Kirihara looks at Niou. It takes a long moment for the words to sink in and the memory of Yukimura's promise to him to surface. Kirihara forces a laugh and he rubs the back of his neck. "Heh, yeah. How'd buchou know to call you?"
Niou shrugs. "He's the child of god?"
Kirihara rolls his eyes. Niou snickers. "Will you come and watch, senpai?" Kirihara asks. He looks at Niou, hopeful and eager even as Niou sighs and rolls his eyes.
"Guess I have to now," Niou says. "If we're…." Niou coughs. His cheeks spot with pink and he scuffs the toes of his shoes again.
Kirihara laughs.
~finis~
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 32 000
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Eight months later, and Kirihara is more confused about Niou than ever. Sequel to Six Percent Doki Doki
Author's Notes: Written for pixxers' birthday- Happy Birthday, Pix! &hearts
This fic has been truncated into five parts due to length: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]
On the eighth floor of the 109 building is a sushi place.
They eat there.
Niou picked up the stack of yen with the help of the clerk in the store. Kirihara doesn't remember anything except standing there like a fool, laughing, because he couldn't do anything else but.
He sits hunched over his stomach to squash the tighter knots forming in his belly. The tatami is soft under his knees and there are jewel-toned sushi pieces arranged over the plates they order, wrapped up like presents with ribbons of nori. Kirihara's not hungry, but his stomach flip-flops anyway. He hasn't said anything to Niou. Niou hasn’t said anything to him, but somehow, they ended up here.
He's trying to figure things out as they eat and spend the money Marui gave him. Kirihara doesn't know what to make of that: Marui-senpai isn't exactly the most generous, selfless person around, but he hasn't called Niou's cellphone or come back for his yen. Maybe he found a cake shop in the basement and is busy stuffing his face with chocolate mocha cream pie as he and Jackal check out the chubby chicks. Kirihara doesn't know.
The shop isn't the best. It's kinda pricey and there's too many girls here, nibbling at sashimi with pearly fingernails and dainty lips. The knives of the sushi chef shines and glimmers. Glasses klink and Kirihara sips at his cup of water. The wad of bills is thick in his pocket. He's tempted to pull it out and smell them, to see if Niou rubbed off on them.
But Niou is here, with him, across the table and poking at a piece of smoked eel. Hair falls over his eyes. His words from before, I was never with Yagyuu, echo in Kirihara's ears.
He's such a fucking idiot, but at the same time, he didn't know. A million and one questions zip through Kirihara's mind, so fast that he gets a headache. The papery walls of the shop spin around him, dizzyingly fast. When something taps his foot, Kirihara jumps. His body hums from the contact as his eyes trail from his foot to the hand that touched it, up Niou's arm to his face.
His heart pounds, doki doki all over again when Niou opens his mouth. He pushes his bangs back from his face and his eyes stare into Kirihara's, dark and a little wet-looking.
No one else in the shop is paying them any attention. Niou pokes at the smoked eel with the end of his chopstick before he speaks. His voice is rough and hard to make out; Kirihara has to strain to hear.
"The fatty took you here on purpose, didn't he?" Niou asks.
Kirihara nods. "Yeah," he says. "Guess so."
Niou nods.
On the table between them, the sushi doesn’t move. Kirihara's insides slither more, tightening and twisting up. The silence is beyond awkward until Niou breaks it again with thick words.
"Why didn't you come?"
Niou's eyes burn. Kirihara shakes. His heart has fluttered into his throat and he doesn't understand anything except the sheen of pain in Niou's pupils that cuts him between the ribs, the way seeing Yagyuu with Niou did last week. The sushi roll Kirihara was peeling nori from drops from his fingers.
"What?"
"You didn't come," Niou says. His voice raises a notch until he clears his throat. A group of girls and a short guy walk in, heads held high and stinking of money with their leather and Prada shades and designer purses and manbags.
"Come where?" Kirihara asks.
A round of glasses clink at the bar counter. The waitress whisks by. Niou's head follows her and he opens his mouth for a moment, as if he's going to say something, but instead he just shakes his head. It's the same game they played for months when Niou's eyes glaze over and he mutters, "It's nothing."
Out of nowhere, Kirihara slams his fist down on the table. The plates of sushi shake and the sashimi wiggles. "Tell me!" he shouts. The sushi chef looks up from the counter and the knife in his hand glitters under the dim lights of the restaurant. Kirihara can feel his cheeks flushing, but he forces himself to get it out.
As Niou twists, hand pressed to the tatami floor as if he's going to stand up and leave, Kirihara reaches for his arm. His fingers curl around Niou's wrist, touching the neoprene wristweight, but also his warm skin. He can feel Niou's goosepimples and Kirihara shivers too.
Niou tugs. Kirihara yanks. "Why don't you tell me anything?" he hisses.
The arm under his fingers goes slack. Niou kneels back down, keeps his head down, but he reaches out to touch his tennisbag. There, on the zipper, is his own beat-up unicorn charm from Six Percent Doki Doki. The painted smile has been hacked away and the horn is bent. It can't speak and it's hurt.
A bit like the both of them.
"I was the tutor," Niou says. He lifts his eyes. Kirihara's jaw drops.
"I was your math tutor."
Kirihara tries to breathe. He tries to stay all calm and collected the way the Yanagi voice is in his head, but there is a lump pressing so hard against the base of his throat that he has to gulp at the air. He's the biggest fucking fool ever.
Kirihara's chin drops to his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut and he balls his fist, but this time, he doesn't slam his hand down. Again and again, he curls and uncurls his fingers until some sort of feeling returns, beyond the fierce shame coursing through his limbs, berating him for being such a complete idiot.
"I'm sorry," Kirihara mutters, but no sound comes from his lips. The apology is so stale and he doesn't know how to make things right. He's never understood Niou and this is exactly why. They don't have whatever it is they need to be together.
A shudder in his chest makes his body twitch. Kirihara's eye twitches, too, and he can't take his eyes off Niou when he looks up. Niou cocks his head to the side, but his posture is limp and defeated. His shoulders are slumped, not hunched, and he's barely touched his sushi too.
It was all a waste.
Guilt pricks Kirihara's insides, vaguely, for spending Marui's money. Even more guilt slices through his belly for not knowing that Niou waited there, all those days, and Kirihara couldn't be bothered to show up once to math tutoring. He's bleeding on the inside and he can taste the blood in the back of his mouth. It floods over his tongue in a wave and he wants to puke.
Niou deserves so much more than a dumb kid like him.
Now, Kirihara has nothing to lose.
He stares at the plate of sushi. He picks up one of the prawns and pulls the tail off. His heart is caught in his throat, held by the stupid invisible red cord that ties him to Niou, but not the other way around. The thick lump grows bigger and bigger and his foot tingles, having fallen asleep. Kirihara ignores it.
"I really liked you," he murmurs. "I liked you a lot senpai and-"
"What are you saying?" Niou asks. His nostrils flare and he's breathing hard. His eyes are wide and alive, the whites blazing behind black pupils that reflect the grimace on Kirihara's face.
"I…" Kirihara winces. It’s harder than he thought, to say the words to Niou face-to-face.
"…I thought we broke up…"
Niou's pale face whitens. Nothing is left except bluish veins through his glassy cheeks.
Kirihara realizes he's made a horrible, horrible second mistake when Niou's hand shakes so hard it slips off the table. A flood of overwhelming feelings spills up from his gut and Kirihara lunges across the table. Blood rushes through his body and through his skull, pulsing behind his eyes, but not in the bloodshot way. There is a dull echo of a sushi plate crashing to the floor by Niou's knee. The other is under Kirihara's side, the raw fish grinding into his shirt when he moves and grabs Niou by the arms. He holds tight, digging in until Niou doesn’t squirm anymore, although he does twist his head away.
"You didn't want this in the first place," Niou says.
Kirihara digs his fingers in deeper. Niou hisses. Kirihara clenches his jaw and bares his teeth. He shakes and Niou shivers. Under bleached bangs, Kirihara can see sweat beading on Niou's forehead. Niou sniffs, forcing a little laugh that cuts Kirihara even deeper.
"You're not like me," Niou says.
Kirihara grabs at Niou and Niou lets him, Niou lets himself be pulled up by his collar. Kirihara is about ready to slam Niou into the floor until he relents and…he doesn't know what. He's not thinking straight. The blood rushing through his body, pulsing behind every pore is alive and sensitized and he's hard against Niou's thigh and part of him just wants to crush Niou.
The other part of him wants to kiss Niou's trembling mouth hard enough to prove he's dead serious.
But right before the conflicting emotions swirl up and cloud Kirihara's judgment even more, the waitress stops them.
"Excuse me," she says. "I'm afraid you'll both need to leave the premises. The chef has kindly asked that you refrain from-"
Before she finishes, Kirihara lets go of Niou. Niou snorts and chucks his chin up at her, his blasé resolve instantly reappearing. It makes warm fuzzies start to multiply inside Kirihara. This is the Niou he knows, not the hurt, pale person who he just grabbed and shook like a ragdoll. Niou grabs his bags first, tossing down a couple bills from his pocket. The chains on his belt jingle and he makes a point to knock into the waitress on his way out. Kirihara scrambles, right behind, grabbing his bags and trying to be indifferent too, though his face is on fire and he winces and forces a laugh out of habit.
"Fuck this," Niou mutters.
"Yeah," Kirihara says.
They both get onto the escalator-no place left to go except down. A wave of relief washes over Kirihara when they finally step outside of the 109 building. His shoulders relax with Niou at his side, even if the tension never leaves completely. Niou's back is to him, silhouetted against the array of lights and ads and the hundred million colours of Shibuya that dance in Niou's hair.
They start to walk aimlessly, with no direction, the way Niou would back home through the subway arcades when they were together. The clubs have started pulling out their sandwich boards, announcing drinks and prices and deals for the ladies. Girls in stilettos and glittery dresses mill on the packed streets, illuminated like the sky with the rainbow of signs in the area. Some of them work on para para moves on the pavement, arms flapping and feet shuffling. Bars are alive with throbbing techno music and the smell of fried food and beer fills the air. Kirihara breathes it in deep, but the unsettled feeling in his stomach remains.
He doesn't let Niou out of his sight. Niou ducks down an alleyway and the crowds begin to thin out here as the shops and bars lead into seedier areas. Kirihara runs, his bags bouncing hard against his back. "Sen-pai!" he shouts. His voice cracks, but he doesn't care.
He's serious about this, whether Niou gets it or not.
The alleyways are darker, haunted with the sounds of tin cans and distant roaring engines from scooters and the rattling train tracks. In front of a glowing vending machine, Niou stops. He lingers long enough over the drinks for Kirihara to catch up in a rush of panting and his flatting, squeezing heart.
"I'm serious," he says.
Niou blinks, but he keeps staring at the cans of pepsi and fanta, milk tea and iced coffee. His hand hovers over the buttons, but presses none. He makes no decisions. Kirihara's stomach slithers in that way his gut knows he's going to act before his brain does. His toes tingle-just a bit-remnants of falling asleep before.
He takes Niou's hand in his own, cupping them both around Niou's fingers. Niou's skin is warm and clammy, but his hand freezes when Kirihara tries to weave their fingers together.
Niou's lips part with a silent sigh and his chest shudders. Kirihara squeezes his hands around Niou's tighter. He doesn’t know what he's doing when he takes the hand and brings it to his own lips, only that it feels right to press a dry kiss to the top of Niou's palm.
Niou closes his eyes. Kirihara kisses his hand again. His insides melt, but the night isn't very warm, just Niou's skin under his lips, under his tongue, tasting of salt-sweat and slight fish from the sushi. He lifts his eyes to Niou, who has stumbled into the vending machine. Niou's mouth moves, but he doesn’t make a sound, except for the scuffle of their sneakers.
"Akaya."
His lips form the single word that Kirihara has been waiting to hear for nine months.
For being so confused before this year, Kirihara isn't anymore.
***
Nearby, the streets are busier and the blinking façades of buildings greet them, one cement block followed by another in fake brick, followed by two more in cement. There are iron gates and huge signs above their heads. People keep their heads low, here, and Kirihara feels naked without a pair of shades to cover his eyes.
But not naked enough to really care.
They pass another vending machine. Gone are the fantas and pepsis. Instead, they are replaced with something a little more physical in the labeled boxes inside. Kirihara's heart throbs when he stops at one. Niou holds his breath-he leans against the wall kiddy-corner past a row of cement pylons where a single bicycle is parked. Kirihara swallows hard as he inserts one of the bills. There are too many choices: lubricated, extra large, intense pleasure, ribbed. He's forgotten to breathe and his hand shakes over the choices.
In the end, Kirihara presses the first button his finger hits.
Intense pleasure.
He's dreamed about this, sure, but the reality is totally different. In reality, they walk up the paved road, a block or two more up the slight incline of a hilly street filled with love hotels. There's a ramen joint to his right, hot bowls of noodles steaming up in the night air.
His dick is swollen hard with thoughts of being naked, with Niou, by themselves in a room. It's difficult to walk, the deeper they go into the neighbourhood. Kirihara slows his pace. Niou's one step behind-he says nothing, but he doesn't leave either.
A blinking sandwich board announces Hotel Carcassone, price, 6800 for a stay. No one enters the doors. No one is around, for the moment, though there were couples strolling arm-in-arm behind them a moment ago. There are enough bills in Kirihara's pockets to pay for it, he knows. His hands are cold and he can't feel his fingers. The hotel has a cement front, with fake turrets on either end that look more like cardboard than dungeons and dragons.
Niou looks at him. His mouth is set in a line as his eyes go up and up, taking in the fake mortar and the crenulations running across the roofline like icing tufts. He shrugs his shoulders and toes the sandwich board.
It'll do.
Kirihara pays at the self-check-in. Luckily, there is no clerk behind a frosted pane of glass to tell them no fags allowed. He picks the room from a series of images on the touch-screen-the rooms all look the same anyway. Bed, shower, bathroom, tv, fridge. It doesn't really matter.
They have eight hours.
Niou locks the door to the room behind them.
There is a huge mural of a dragon on the wall and a large bed in the middle. Kirihara's eyes immediately shift to the doorways for a bathroom, and a toilet room, that are covered in fake wood paneling and plastic chains to look like drawbridges. If he wasn't so nervous, he might laugh. Since his knees wobble already, he laughs anyway.
Niou sets his bags down, slowly lifting them down from his shoulders into a heap on the floor. He doesn't move from the perimeter of the room, instead he trails his fingers over the tv and the fridge. He opens the door and grunts.
Kirihara peers over his shoulder.
There aren't snacks in the fridge-it's filled with purple dildos and green plugs and beads and handcuffs and even a ball gag that Niou pulls out to dangle with a raised eyebrow.
"Uh," Kirihara says. He chews on hit bottom lip. Niou's eyes are dark and hot, making Kirihara's insides turn into a sort of melty-goo. "I don't think that's my thing, senpai…"
A ghost of a smile plays at Niou's lips. Kirihara's heart stops pounding for a beat, and then he shivers. Crouching, Niou stands up and brushes off the front of his uniform pants that he's been wearing all evening. Kirihara doesn't stop himself from looking down and noticing the strain at Niou's crotch, despite the low-slung pants and the studded belt holding them up on his hips.
Niou wants this.
Niou wants him.
His mouth goes dry, but before he can say anything, Niou sidles past him, slipping into the bathroom without a word. The door clicks shut, and then the sound of water rushing-the shower-follows. Kirihara presses his ear to the door. Listening, he can make out the muffled sounds of clothes rustling and then a heavy sigh.
Kirihara pulls away from the door. He might be dumb, but he's not a complete idiot. He knows what showers mean-or at least, his body does. A feverish flush blooms over his arms and face, spreading down his belly to his dick. Kirihara swallows. He leans on the wall and closes his eyes, cupping a hand over his dick. His fingertips can feel the pulse of his erection pumping hard and hot with blood through his pants. He rubs the bulge, moaning under his breath. He stuffs his hand down under his waistband, his dick needing more friction, more contact than what he's been doing. Kirihara stumbles to the side. His hand clenches around his aching cock and he hisses as the pleasure ripples through his limbs, making his legs unsteady and tremble. Kirihara stiffens as the waves of pleasure flood his belly, and inside tightens up and melts all at once. He pulls at himself. The pants constrict his hand and he can't stop clenching his legs, so he widens them. He bites his lip to keep from moaning too loud.
His foot catches the floor the wrong way. It sends him tumbling into the headboard of the bed. Kirihara shrieks. The side of his head smacks the headboard-okay, he's hit himself a thousand times before being a klutz.
Only before, the Yamanote line train music never started to play as the sharp pain erupts through his skull.
Kirihara blinks. He rolls onto his stomach, smushing his hand under the weight of his body. His dick keeps swelling, hard and aching. The headboard is covered in buttons: tv, air conditioning, train music for fifteen different lines in the Kantou region…
His brow furrows when he thinks about why the hell people would get off to train music in a love hotel with a dragon painted on the wall. His skull throbs, faintly, but mostly his dick demands attention. All thoughts slither into his belly when he humps the mattress, rubbing and straining in his pants.
He doesn't notice the rush of the shower spray stopping.
He doesn't notice the doorway to the bathroom opening.
He doesn't notice Niou, standing there in a white terry bathroom until Niou clears his throat and asks, "Enjoying yourself?"
Kirihara sucks in a breath. He whips his head around so fast that he nearly creams his skull on the headboard a second time. He winces, but Niou never laughs at him. Kirihara remembers his hand is down his pants. Carefully, he extracts it with as much dignity as he can muster-which isn’t much, since his face is on fire and he can swear that there's a sheen of precome on his fingers.
A laugh forces its way up out of his twisted stomach into the tense air between them. Kirihara tries to stop it by biting down harder on his lip, but it only makes things worse. The mattress creaks under Niou's weight when he sits down at the end of the bed. Kirihara moves to get up, to bolt, to splash his burning face with water and try to get a grip on himself before Niou laughs at him for masturbating-
But Niou grabs his hand first.
Kirihara freezes. Niou's long fingers wrap around his wrist, pinning him in place when Niou looks at him. His hair is darker when it's wet and without his hair wax, it's flatter, too. It parts at his forehead in an even line running back on his scalp, a bit like Yagyuu, but not quite. His eyes, though…his black, big eyes stare into Kirihara's. They never break contact when Niou takes Kirihara's hand to his mouth. He rubs his cheek on Kirihara's fingers, kissing his palm with dry, lingering presses that collect in Kirihara's balls.
He shudders. He tries to yank his hand away. He tries to insist that it's gross and weird and he's sorry, he'll go shower now, but Niou is on the offensive. Shocked, Kirihara sits on top of the bed like a lump as Niou pushes his fingers through his lips. A hot, wet tongue swirls around his fingertips, sending electric jolts down Kirihara's legs. He twitches. He squirms. He finally reacts with a weird little noise in the back of his throat.
Kirihara blushes. Hard. "Senpai," he says. "Senpai, that's…" weird…
Niou sucks on his fingers, pulling them in and out of his mouth. His head bobs. Kirihara's eyes pop out of his head when it hits him like a rock to the brain just what it looks like Niou is doing.
His mouth drops.
It is just enough to make Niou drop his hand. It falls slack to the bed as Niou leans over, crawls over, crawls up Kirihara's chest. Their noses brush. Niou's wet hair tickles Kirihara's jaw as Niou rubs his head, making strange little noises, like purrs, but different. He breathes over Kirihara's face, murmuring words that Kirihara will forget later, but in the moment, they sound right.
They sound really right.
Kirihara turns his head. Niou bumps his cheek, and their mouths search each other out. Kirihara sighs into the kiss when their lips finally meet. It's been so long that kissing Niou again almost feels new. His stomach is melting into the mattress as Niou leans into his body, slowly resting more and more of his weight against Kirihara until they are pressed thigh to thigh and chest to chest. Kirihara touches the back of Niou's neck-the skin is soft and damp, pliable under his fingers when he rubs circles, encouraging Niou to tilt his head up higher.
This is good, Kirihara thinks. He has a face full of Niou. He has Niou over him, moving and shifting under his bathrobe. Kirihara's hands fumble between them. Niou pulls back in a slimy trail and gasps. Kirihara tries again, grabbing onto an end of the tie and loosening it. Again, Niou squirms, jerking to the side and hunching over his stomach in a wide-eyed grimace.
Kirihara scratches at his head, mentally. He shifts his eyes around. There's nothing funny, not really, unless he counts the telephone in the shape of a weird, long green cucumber.
The more he thinks about that, the more Kirihara can see the telephone taking shape. It's not a cucumber so much as a misshapen dick, but that's not what Niou is laughing over. He's laughing because Kirihara's other hand is on his hip, roaming faintly over the bathrobe and Niou is ticklish.
Biting his lip on a grin, Kirihara dives. He attacks Niou with his hands, rubbing and poking his sides under Niou is on his knees above Kirihara, gasping and heaving and shaking his head as he laughs. "No!" he says. "Stop-Akaya, stop!"
It just makes Kirihara laugh too. His heart patters at the sound of hearing his name on Niou's lips-he loves it. He loves the way Niou speaks in that long, western sort of accent that no one at school has ever totally figured out. He loves the way Niou gasps and pants and flips onto his back to try to get away.
The opportunity is perfect.
Kirihara pounces.
Niou's skin is pale and white under the robe, which bunches up under his body as Kirihara pushes it away. He does his best to be hot and sexy and suave, licking Niou's neck with long strokes from his tongue, but when Niou jerks his shoulder up and grunts, it's not so sexy with his own saliva back on his nose, slightly more stale.
Before, the furthest they ever got was handjobs in the clubhouse or behind the tool shed. Now, with foil-wrapped condoms on top of the pillows and in the candy dish on the table, with the knowledge that they are alone for eight hours, with Niou gasping and straining underneath him, Kirihara knows that they're going to go all the way.
It scares him.
It excites him.
Like, this whole being with Niou did in the first place. Butterflies erupt in his stomach and his hands shake on Niou's skin when he touches Niou's nipples. They stiffen under his touch. Niou moans. Kirihara presses his knee between Niou's legs, rubbing his dick on Niou's bare thigh. They're so close now, but at the same time, Kirihara's clothes are still a barrier. Hands over his back pull at his shirt. Hands run down his spine to tug at his pants and fumble with the belt. Kirihara stiffens. He arches forward into Niou's hands that tremble on his belt, the metal catching and then his breath, too, when the belt releases. Niou shoves Kirihara's pants down. Kirihara shoves his nerves down. His head swims. The air is thick with the sounds of their moans, and the wet slickness of their mouths, meeting again and again. Tongues touch and dance and play, back and forth like a tennis rally. Kirihara's never been drunk, but he feels it right now. His body moves and his head lolls. He groans. He bites on Niou's bottom lip, harder and harder. The desire is primal and unexplainable, but he wants to mark Niou as his now.
You're not Yagyuu's! Kirihara wants to scream. He wants to carve his name into Niou's shuddering belly. He wants to lick his initials into Niou's neck. He wants to scratch his ownership onto Niou's back, but instead, Niou does it for him.
"Akaya!" he whispers. His words turn into a drawn out moan, vibrating over Kirihara's tongue when he kisses Niou hard enough they both stop breathing. His heart pounds on his ribs, the doki doki breaking his bones with its force. Kirihara ducks his head, dragging his teeth over Niou's chest and nipples. He mewls under Kirihara when teeth scrape his nipple. They harden in Kirihara's mouth as he sucks.
He could never be with a girl now, not with Niou aggressive and moaning underneath him, moving and flopping like a fish. Skin slippery with sweat makes the friction of their bodies all the more delicious. The bed shakes. The mattress bounces. Niou hooks a leg around the back of Kirihara's thigh-his erection is a brand on Kirihara's thigh. Niou wants this. Niou likes this. Niou is humping his knee and his head is thrown back on the pillow, lips moving with Kirihara's name on them.
Niou's buttery skin is like a drug. Kirihara can't stop touching him, but it is Niou who takes Kirihara's hand in his and guides it down to his dick. At first, Kirihara hisses and pulls away instinctively. He doesn't remember Niou's dick as that hard or that swollen before. He doesn't remember touching Niou's pubes and cupping Niou's balls, rubbing them and rolling them between his fingers. Niou's legs spread wider. He makes a guttural noise that cloys to Kirihara's skin and ears and his mind is clogged with a hundred thousand glimpses of Niou, naked and writhing for him.
Not Yagyuu.
It isn’t Yagyuu who slips a hand between Niou's legs. It isn't Yagyuu who kisses the side of Niou's neck, and his mole, and his fluttering eyelids. It isn't Yagyuu who holds Niou's cock in his tight fist when Niou suddenly jerks and his back breaks and he's coming, hot and shuddering into a hotter grip.
It's Kirihara.
And it's Kirihara who licks Niou's come off his hands. It tastes weird-and leaves a bad aftertaste, but seeing Niou's flushed body shake a little as he settles back on the bed, seeing the faintest of smiles cross his swollen lips, hearing his name and then feeling Niou's listless hand cup his ear and stroke his hair?
"I like your stupid seaweed hair," Niou murmurs. His black eyes are little more than slits. Hair plasters his forehead and there are sweat beads on his upper lip. Kirihara licks his lips, despite the brief flush of anger that rises at the nickname.
"Akaya," Niou says. He closes his eyes and moans, pulling Kirihara into his arms. Kirihara allows himself to fall, just a bit, into Niou's sticky embrace. His body is still tight with desire and tension coils up like a spring in his belly, behind his balls. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he looks down at Niou, who looks up at him with a glazed, content look that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.
"Hn?" Niou asks. "Puri?" he offers. Then, Niou offers his hand, too. Fingertips trace Kirihara's hip, trailing the bone down down down. Kirihara sucks his stomach in when Niou touches him, a tight hand around his tighter cock. His legs shake, his toes curl and Kirihara shakes his head.
"No," he mumbles. Niou's head is in his face. Niou's hands are all over his back again, splayed across his shoulders and rubbing, teasing. Niou lifts himself, pressing their bodies together and he leg wraps around in just the right way that their dicks brush, their balls brush. Kirihara's eyes practically roll back into his head. A long moan escapes his lips. His skin is on fire. His balls are so tight he feels that he's going to explode if Niou keeps rubbing against that sweet, sweet spot and lighting fireworks over his senses.
Niou kisses the side of Kirihara's neck. His mouth is hot and slow, leaving a slimy trail over his skin that makes Kirihara itch and shiver all at the same time. He jerks. His dick jerks. His thighs are shaking and straining and his toes keep digging into the sheets, bunching them up at the foot of the bed. Niou moves over him, around him. He's everywhere and Kirihara can't drink enough of his kisses. Grabbing the back of Niou's head, he yanks, forcing Niou's mouth back to him.
Somewhere in the course of things, Niou grabs one of the condom packets they had been rolling around on. Kirihara's head bumps the headboard as Niou scrambles off him for a moment. And, for an instant, Kirihara's insides go cold at the sound of the packet being open and Niou fumbling.
Is he…?
Not once have they discussed it. Not once have either one of them said what to do, they've just done it. With the blood rushing back to his head, not to his dick, the world of the love hotel room weighs down with reality. The digital clock with the liquid numbers ticks softly. The dim lights seem to bounce off Niou's skin, catching the beads of sweat and the red marks: hickies, scratches, bruises. Kirihara doesn't remember making the dark purple blush on the base of Niou's neck. It stands out on his pale skin, a possessive brand that makes Kirihara feel proud and kinda weird and twisted all at once.
His breathing is harsh in the silence between them. Niou turns away. His damp hair sticks up at odd angles. Kirihara balls his hand to keep from touching it. Goosepimples spread fast over his body when Niou lifts his eyes. The word holds on Kirihara's tongue, Senpai… and he doesn’t get it out.
Because, first, Niou's fingers make quick work, rolling the condom back onto his dick.
Kirihara's dick.
He stiffens. Niou looks at him, staring hard into Kirihara's shaking vision. He climbs onto Kirihara's lap and sinks down, rubbing and rocking his hips. Niou throws his head back, exposing his neck to Kirihara's teeth. He can't stop himself from dragging his lips, tongue, teeth over Niou's neck. He tastes the sweat of Niou's skin and his heavy pulse, beating on his lips as he kisses it away. Niou moans. Palms spread over Kirihara's nipples clench and release, over and over, pulling and tugging Kirihara's skin until it hurts. Kirihara hisses.
The rhythmic motions of their bodies build as the tension increases, swelling and burning as Kirihara pushes back, his dick between Niou's legs. The heat is incredible and delicious. He can't get enough and he thrusts, his dick so close, but not quite.
Tonight, they're going to do it.
Kirihara should be terrified. But instead, he stops thinking. He stops thinking about where to put his hand and what to do about the shaking in his legs. He stops thinking about if Niou likes his moans or if his dick's bent or funny looking. He stops thinking about everything except the overwhelming sensations of Niou on him, around him, over him and Kirihara dives.
Blood rushes through his body as he pushes Niou to the side, to the bed. It creaks. The sheets bunch, kicked up when Kirihara slings his legs. It's awkward and unnatural for a moment as they move themselves. Niou lifts a leg. His eyes have widened, but the warm blackness hasn't left. "This okay?" he asks.
Kirihara swallows. Niou is spread out for him. It can't be comfortable and Niou winces when Kirihara tries to push forward. He apologizes, automatic, but the words dissolve into a moan when his dick rubs against Niou's ass, so close to that incredible, hot tightness inside. Kirihara stops breathing. He can feel the barrier start to break. Niou mewls. He groans. Something breaks inside himself and Kirihara can't stop sliding in. He's consumed. His blood is on fire, boiling behind his eyes and his heart slams into his ribs, bursting out of his chest and bleeding all over Niou's thrown-back gasps. This feels so damn fucking good.
It lasts moments.
It lasts forever.
The first time he comes inside Niou, his dick exploding from Niou clenching his ass, once or twice, it doesn't matter. Kirihara can't last long, not with the pleasure at breaking point, flooding through his body in a crashing wave. He grunts. He thrusts. Niou shifts and moans. Kirihara shudders, pushing himself to the hilt over and over and over until he's spent himself.
Sticky and boneless, he lies on Niou's chest. Their bodies are covered in sweat-whose, it doesn't matter--and come-whose, it still doesn't matter either. Niou's chest rises and falls in shaking breaths. The corners of his eyes are wet. Kirihara presses a fingertip to them, half-smiling tentatively when Niou squeezes them shut. He wipes the wetness across Niou's cheeks, then kisses off the rest. Niou's hands don't move from Kirihara's sides-it's almost as if Niou can't let go, that Niou is clinging to him and it makes Kirihara swallow a thick lump in his throat.
The first thing Kirihara asks is, "Was it okay?" His voice is thick and quiet, the words barely audible, even to himself. He swallows a hard lump when Niou doesn't answer. Time ticks away. Kirihara can almost make out the sound of a revving scooter outside, somewhere, three floors to the ground.
Niou sighs. The casual arm draped over Kirihara's back curls tighter and he closes his eyes. Niou's face is still flushed, then the blush darkens a bit when he nods once. "Yeah," he whispers. "You're all right, kid."
Kirihara blinks. Then he smacks Niou across the head. "Oi!" he shouts.
Niou chucks a pillow into his ear. He laughs as Kirihara ducks, and swings again, direct hit that makes Kirihara wobble on his knees and collapse right back down on top of Niou with an "Oomph!"
Niou traps Kirihara in a headlock. His eyes dance in the dim, gilded light and his crooked smile makes Kirihara's stomach hot. He ruffles the top of Kirihara's head, only this time, Kirihara doesn't really mind. He shoves Niou away, but he can't stop his own laughter either.
They fall back onto the bed. The sheets are damp under their bodies, and they smell musky and sweaty. Niou moves on Kirihara's side, rubbing his cheek near Kirihara's armpit. He makes a noise and pretends to purr. Kirihara blinks-he's never seen Niou this relaxed, enough for Niou to close his eyes on Kirihara's arm. Niou's breathing evens out. His body is warm, but not really all the comfortable. Kirihara shifts a bit, trying to ignore the numb tingle in his arm as it falls asleep.
His stomach growls. He tries to ignore that too, but he fails all over again.
The second thing Kirihara asks is, "Do you have any food?" He cringes a bit when Niou cracks an eye open and raises an eyebrow.
"Piyo," Niou says. His nonsense words make Kirihara feel all fluttery inside. Niou flings his legs over the edge of the bed. Long arms stretch out into the arm above him. He scratches his back and looks back over his shoulder at Kirihara. "Got some snacks in my bag," he says.
They pad to the mess of tennisbags and backpacks. Niou crouches down first. Kirihara drinks in the sight of Niou's naked back and the crunched curves of his butt, feet sticking out from underneath. But then Niou stops for a moment. Kirihara follows the line of Niou's gaze over to his own tennisbag. He scratches his scalp. Niou frowns. Slowly, he turns away, but the frown doesn't fall when he fumbles with the zip on his bag.
There's been too much not said and too many misunderstandings. Kirihara balls his fist with resolve. No! he thinks. He grabs Niou by the shoulder and spins him around. Niou may already be naked, but the widened flash in his eyes makes him even more exposed.
"What?" Kirihara asks.
Niou looks at him. The deer-in-the-headlights look fades as he avoids Kirihara's eyes. Niou snorts. He rummages around his tennisbag and pulls out a can of melon fanta. The edges are dinged. Kirihara shoves it away. He grabs Niou a second time, dragging Niou up to his height. He slings his arm around Niou's hip and their bodies slam together, hard and physical when Kirihara curls his lip. "What?" he snaps. "Why don't you tell me anything?"
The fanta can drops to the floor. Niou's Adam's Apple bobs. He breathes through his nose. Between their bodies, Kirihara can feel the hard, hard press of an erection and it excites him, sending sparks of anticipation through his own gut. He tightens his arm around Niou, demanding an answer with their bodies.
"Your charm's gone," Niou says.
Invisible bugs crawl across Kirihara's scalp. He scratches them and blinks, taken aback with surprise and confusion. "Eh?"
Niou nods his head to the side, his body going limp in Kirihara's hold. He mutters "Puri" under his breath, then in a voice a shade higher he mumbles, "The unicorn on your bag."
He won't meet Kirihara's eyes.
Kirihara lets go. He shakes his head. No, you're all wrong, senpai! he wants to say, but he says nothing. Silence condenses. On the wall, the painted dragon stares at them with beady eyes. The whiskers around it's face and the dark colour make it look more like a catfish, leering and smirking at them in all their grand misunderstanding of each other and what they have together.
Kirihara unzips his tennisbag. The charm pops out, hidden on the other side of the zip. A visible tension releases from Niou's shoulders. He touches his forehead and shakes his head. "So stupid," he whispers. Niou laughs a little, just to cut the weirdness of it all. Kirihara does too. He touches Niou's arm and brushes his thumb over Niou's hand, pulling it away from his face so that he can see Niou's dark eyes once more.
"I…." Kirihara bites his lip. He sighs, but he doesn't look away. Niou's sighs, too, his lips parting. He licks his lips. Kirihara digs deep for courage, even though he's shaking inside and his blood rushes through his ears and wormy floaters cloud his vision. He blinks, quickly, before he does anything lame and girly.
"I…wanna try harder," Kirihara says.
A warm hand snakes around the back of Kirihara's neck, fingers toying with the curls back there. Niou nods. "Me too," Niou whispers. He leans in close, closing the distance between them.
"Me too," he says again. Niou kisses the promise into Kirihara's lips.
Kirihara kisses him back.
***
The problem with love hotels is that you can't get back in.
At 1:09am, after having sex again and drinking the melon fanta (together!) in bed and eating the only two energy bars Kirihara had in his tennisbag, he and Niou crawl outside to get some ramen. The joint across the street and down a block is open. A yawning waitress serves them pork ramen, regular-size, that they slurp down in minutes. Niou belches. Kirihara licks the salty broth from his lips.
They walk back to the love hotel when Niou says, "How do we get back in to get our bags?"
Kirihara blinks. He'd never thought that far ahead. His body is so sensitized that each step, the rub of clothes on his skin, kissed and touched all over by Niou, he can't stop thinking about anything save for the primal writhing of their bodies, together, on that bed in the room with the painted dragon-catfish on the wall.
In the end, going for food was a waste of another 6800 yen to use the same room and pray their tennisbags are still there.
They are.
Kirihara sighs with relief. Niou sets the room keys down on top of the fridge. They jingle. His chains jingle when he peels his pants back off. In moments, they are naked on that bed-not even the sheets have been changed yet. Remnants of their earlier sex stain the bunched sheets and the mattress conforms to the motions of their bodies when Kirihara kisses Niou's belly and Niou licks the inside of Kirihara's shaking thigh.
They have sex until they can't anymore. Kirihara whimpers when he comes. It hurts to move in Niou's ass. Niou begs him to stop, he can't take it anymore and he shudders, shivers and shakes under Kirihara with his arm thrown over his face, hand in his mouth and bitten.
After, they use the very last of Marui's money to watch a pay-per-view porno. Kirihara falls asleep halfway through. He wakes at an indeterminate hour to the feeling of hands stroking his hair, combing it back from his face. He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to breathe evenly. Niou leans down and presses his lips to Kirihara's forehead.
"I love you, you bugger," he mutters.
Kirihara doesn't fall back to sleep a second time. He lays awake until Niou dozes off and he can bring himself to say those three words in return. Niou's sleeping face twitches into a half-smile, but Kirihara lets it slide.
***
An alarm goes off at seven.
Niou's cellphone sings-some jazz-y ringtone, like ringtone seventeen. Niou flies awake with a strangled gasp, but when he looks around, he blinks. Sleepy confusion softens his face when he scratches his bum. Kirihara rolls over and checks the hotel clock.
"Aw, shit," he says. "We got school soon. We're not going to get back in time."
Niou flings up pairs of pants and shirts, socks and underpants and a random wristweight. Kirihara looks down at his wrists-it's one of his. He velcroes it back on when Niou pulls out his pants pockets.
"We have no money," he says. "Puri."
"Aw, shit," Kirihara says a second time. Then, in a flash of brilliance, he snaps his fingers. "We could just skip," he says. "We could-"
Niou shakes his head. He's pulling on his underpants and hobbling around the room. He hobbles into the headboard and the train station music for the Chuo line starts to chime. "I got a math exam at eleven. Can't miss it, kid."
"Well…" Kirihara frowns. He scratches his forehead. He rubs his chin. "What do we do?" he asks. "We have no money to get back home."
Pausing mid-button on his shirt (rumpled, one button missing when Kirihara ripped it off at two thirty am after ramen), Niou blows at the hair falling in his eyes. Without his hair tie, he looks more disheveled than usual. The bags under his eyes and the lethargic, sleepy droop make him look like he's been up half the night having sex.
And when Kirihara sees that purple bruise on the base of Niou's neck, it's more than obvious that Niou has been up half the night having sex.
"You got anyone who can drive?" Niou asks. "Like your sister, or something?"
***
A white Toyota pulls up from the Shuto Expressway Number three, just outside the Tokyu Department store. Niou slouches and gives Kirihara a skeptical eyebrow. Kirihara's already cringing before the driver's-side door flings opens.
His sister stomps out in all her 155cm glory. She's in a pajama top and jeans and her boobs bounce, because she's not wearing a bra. Her face is red and her eyes, too. The stupid Chihuahua bobble head in the rear window of the car nods its head at Kirihara and Niou. The dangling pink charms on the rear-view mirror sway. The Toyota is still running as his sister starts to shout.
"Where the HELL were you last night, moron?" she shrieks. "What the hell? Mom made me drive all the way to fucking SHIBUYA at this buttfuck hour to pick you up because you got lost again?!" She flaps her arms and seethes. Steam curls up from her hair-it's a rat's nest, just like Kirihara's.
Kirihara growls. "I am not lost!" he shouts, right back at her. Her eyes go wide and she purses her lips until they go white. They pace around each other and breathe down each other's necks: a standoff.
Niou whistles behind them. A car driving by honks. His sister's illegally parked and even though she's gotta know it, she whips her demon head around 360 degrees to glare at the driver.
The police car drives off quickly. Even he's scared shit of her.
"Oh yeah?" she asks. "Then what the hell did mom make me come here for?"
Kirihara grinds his teeth. Behind him, Niou scuffs his sneaker on the pavement. The city workers are out with the sweepers and garbage trucks, ferrying away the night's trash in preparation for the morning crush of salarymen and OLs coming to work before the whole cycle repeats again.
"We just didn't have enough money!" Kirihara snaps. "Okay? Jeez!" Under his breath, he adds, "Stupid bitch."
Behind him, Niou snorts. Kirihara's sister's eyes blaze with fury in Niou's direction, killing him dead with one Medusa look. Niou stands there and yawns, pretending not to notice. She turns back to Kirihara and sneers. Her eyes are bloodshot and her teeth have grown into fangs as she spits and yells.
"Oh yeah? 'We'? What? Out all night with your boyfriend?" She laughs, but when Kirihara butts in and says, in her face, "Yeah, I was!" she stops.
Kirihara steps back in shock. His jaw drops open.
Niou's eyes are wide and huge. He drops his rat tail that he was toying with between his thumb and index finger.
But instead of his sister shouting back with something even snarkier or meaner or a threat to tell their parents if they don't pay her, her eyes glaze over with the matte glow of red romanji letters and the white façade across the scramble crossing.
Her voice drops ten notches and it's full of breathy wonder when she whispers, "Is that Shibuya 109?"
She wanders off into the glittering morning sun, her eyes alive for only one beacon in the world. Niou's cellphone goes off a second time, only this time, he flips it open and answers it. "Hn…yeah…okay…yeah." Four noncommittal answers to whoever called, then he flips it closed and stuffs it back into his pocket along with his hands. Niou rocks back on the heels of his sneakers. He seems okay, now that Kirihara's dumb sister has gone off to shop.
"Yukimura says you owe him a game," Niou says.
Kirihara looks at Niou. It takes a long moment for the words to sink in and the memory of Yukimura's promise to him to surface. Kirihara forces a laugh and he rubs the back of his neck. "Heh, yeah. How'd buchou know to call you?"
Niou shrugs. "He's the child of god?"
Kirihara rolls his eyes. Niou snickers. "Will you come and watch, senpai?" Kirihara asks. He looks at Niou, hopeful and eager even as Niou sighs and rolls his eyes.
"Guess I have to now," Niou says. "If we're…." Niou coughs. His cheeks spot with pink and he scuffs the toes of his shoes again.
Kirihara laughs.
~finis~