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Tears prickle Satomi’s eyes, stinging, and he covers his face with his arm. He isn’t sure why he’s being like this. It’s not like it’s the first time. And he can’t pretend he doesn’t like it. So why is he letting his mind wander? Why is he letting himself think?
Why is he never satisfied?
All he knows is that spotting Kyouji across the crowded station for the first time in four months had felt like reopening something healed. Kyouji, his open wound. When recognition finally hit, eyes settling on his smirk through the crowd, it only felt like drowning.
Heart racing, throat tight. He could not get to him fast enough. His breathing comes in fast gulps when he does.
All he had wanted was to press his face into Kyouji’s overcoat. To be held and to hide away somewhere warm and safe. Instead he simply stood there panting wordless up at him before finally taking the proffered bags held out on two crooked fingers.
Persimmons (in season, from the boss’s tree) and 551 (because Satomi-kun is a growing boy).
Those same two crooked fingers now buried in his body.
What had Kyouji told him all those months ago? After the first time. After Kyouji had been pressed so deep inside that Satomi felt sick to his stomach from it. The first time Kyouji had forced and worked and fucked his way inside his body with fingers and then cock, thirty minutes in a rented room where they didn’t even undress. Until, face pressed to the satiny love hotel bedspread, he was only sure it was nothing more than an act of violence. Until he was only sure two people were never meant to be so close.
It will get easier.
Will, implying a continuation. A bold inference of a future. Were they words said in the guise of comfort?
He had gone home and thrown up and promised himself he would never see Kyouji again and a month later gone back to him anyway.
Because against time the pain is too easy to forget, neglected under other sensations. Desire. Longing. Because sure it still hurts but Kyouji was right and it had gotten easier. He likes the way it feels.
Maybe he just likes to hurt.
There was the next time, tattooed arms wrapped around him in some sick approximation of an embrace while he raised and lowered himself on Kyouji’s lap. He hadn’t been able to bite back the needy whine when a rough hand closed around his cock to stroke him slow. He came almost immediately after, toes curling in his sneakers. Kyouji doesn’t seem to mind that he never lasts long, had only tipped him forward and kept fucking him, hands so tight around his waist it would leave him with fingermark bruises. Almost a full perfect set.
And the time after that, backseat of the car, back home for a week of summer break. He had lied when he left the house, told his mother he was meeting friends. He hadn’t cared. His whole body had thrummed with anticipation as he walked the block to Kyouji’s waiting car. It won’t be until later he will feel a kind of sinking horror when he considers what it must have looked like from the outside, the car rocking with the force of Kyouji’s thrusts. Because even then, even tangled in his jeans still around his ankles, there hadn’t been room for any thought, just a kind of animal instinct for survival and then pleasure.
The whole car had reeked of them afterwards. Of bodies, sweat and lube and come. Kyouji seemed to not notice, to take even this in stride like just another thing they did together same as going to karaoke or sharing a meal. Satomi wishes he could live like that, even a little. That the length of time where his mind could shut off would get longer. Instead, as he struggled to pull up his pants in the cramped space he only realized that satisfaction is transient. That this summer day and the next time and the next time after that are only a brief respite, a few minutes of peace before the thing in him feels restless, torn open and terrible again.
What are they doing this for? How long can it last?
And does it even matter?
Two fingers become three inside of him. The bags of fruit and pork buns now sit forgotten in the genkan.
It’s fine, he thinks. It doesn’t matter. All he has to do is lie there, hands loose fists in the futon. Why hadn’t he bothered folding it away that morning? He can’t recall any calculation behind the neglect. Had he assumed when he left to meet Kyouji at the station that this is where they would end up?
He can’t even remember anything they talked about on the way back to the apartment. Had they talked at all? Or had they simply walked in silence while he led them there? All he knows is that the door was barely shut behind them before he was frantically pushing their coats off and fumbling with dress shirt buttons, metal of Kyouji’s belt buckle cool under his fingers. At the time he hardly registered the teasing softness of Kyouji’s familiar laugh that now seems to ring in his ears.
The three fingers inside of him curl and spread, stretching to make room for the cock that will next press to him.
But aside from his own impatience, today there is none of the frantic urgency he is used to. Kyouji works him slowly. Unhurried this time, because they have it.
He has cleared his afternoon for this.
But it is too slow, too reverential. Like Kyouji is enjoying fingering him open. Is he enjoying it? Satomi can’t decide. In the quiet slowness his mind refuses to settle. He cannot reach the place of calm he has grown so reliant on. Like maybe he needs something more carnal to get there, more wild.
This, he had not considered.
He had not considered that in the weakening daylight he would see too much of them naked, light shed on something that had always remained hidden. They only ever did this in the dark or fumbled beneath clothes. Buttons, zippers. Shirts rucked up and pants undone. Now, there naked on his futon in the grey of an unseasonably cold afternoon, the damp seems to seep right through the shoddy apartment windows and onto his skin. Everything is laid bare. When he shivers there’s the low murmur of easy now over him. But he can’t take it easy. How is he supposed to take it easy? Kyouji has three fingers in him. They are naked together for the first time. They are too close.
When Kyouji adjusts the grip on his thigh, the brush of his hand makes him flinch and this time Kyouji only laughs, a soft noise from his throat.
Asshole.
Why had he brought them back there? What was he thinking, bringing a man home? Bringing Kyouji home? Home, with his nosy neighbors and paper thin walls. If he turns his head he can see the textbooks and notes that clutter the table, a mess that only solidifies the reality of neglected classwork waiting for his attention while he lets himself be fucked. A reminder that he skipped lecture to meet Kyouji instead.
The apartment stands around them like it listens, too quiet behind his ragged breathing. Where are the neighbors and their habits, their noises at all hours of the day? He tries not to think of the housewives down the hall who might have seen them together. The way they might hear them, knowing what he does. What it makes him.
He holds his breath and thinks about drowning.
Without it there is only the wet sound of the lube as Kyouji works his fingers. He should have prepped already to save himself the embarrassment. Actually, he thinks as three fingers curl, sending a wave of heat to his already leaking cock, this is wrong. He shouldn’t be an embarrassment like this in the first place. He should probably never see Kyouji again.
He does not let himself make any more noise. He lays still and stays quiet.
Maybe Kyouji is bored. Maybe he’ll be done soon. He hopes so. He wishes the noise of Kyouji’s fingers slick pushing into him wasn’t making him even harder.
But when he peeks from behind his arm there is only spiraling mortification because Kyouji’s eyes are trained down on his lower half where he is held open. Kyouji’s eyes are locked down where his legs are spread, where Kyouji kneels between them. What does he see? Maybe Kyouji is looking at his cock, still pathetically small when hard, leaking onto his stomach. Maybe he watches the way his wet fingers sink down into his body and imagines he’s fucking a woman, someone, anyone else but him. Maybe he is having second thoughts, wondering how he got there. He closes his eyes behind his arm. He wishes Kyouji would look away.
Actually, he thinks as Kyouji’s fingers brush the spot that makes his toes curl, Kyouji lied. It never gets easier.
Because he knows the problem isn’t any of it, not the room, not the light. Not even Kyouji with his bare arms and ink, muscles straining when he moves. The problem isn’t Kyouji’s dark eyes and dark circles, the lines around his mouth or undivided attention. The problem isn’t them both naked in the soft daylight, stripped bare like something that should not be. The problem is him. Satomi is the problem, like a child, both needing this and not able to handle it. Making something out of nothing as usual. He squeezes his eyes shut. All he has to do is lie there and be a hole to fuck. That’s all he has to be.
Maybe he doesn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe it’s too much. The words spill out before he can think any more.
“Just put it in already.”
A low hum. What is it? Interest? Amusement?
Asshole, he thinks again. Stupid Kyouji.
“Satomi-kun is so bossy today,” Kyouji replies, tone too light. He does it anyway.
Fingers pull back slowly. Carefully. Kyouji has already rolled the condom on and so nothing stops him from pressing his cock in their place, hands on the backs of his thighs to hold him open. Kyouji holds him open and pinned. At least pain he can focus on, Kyouji stretching him open. Molding him to fit his body.
Kyouji works inside, an uncomfortable friction, deeper and deeper until they are pressed impossibly close. He cannot take a full breath. He feels like a thing cornered; there is nowhere to run. When Kyouji shifts over him it stirs something deep in his stomach and he winces in reflex, arm still covering his face.
It hurts and he feels rotten to the core. Even if he wanted this to continue, he knows it can’t last. He hasn’t seen Kyouji for four months. How long would it be next time? How long would it be before Kyouji got tired of him? Before he got too old to be what Kyouji wants?
Tears still sting his eyes but he only squeezes them shut tighter. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean a thing.
“Satomi-kun,”
Kyouji’s voice is singsong and too light. He turns his head away but has no defenses left when Kyouji simply leans over and pulls his arms down off his face. When he turns away, Kyouji makes a soft sound, pulling his glasses up and off. Before he can cover his face again a warm hand cups his cheek, thumb too gentle when it brushes at his tears.
“There’s my cute little Satomi,” Kyouji says softly. “Let me see that sweet face.”
He can barely see, blurred through tears and bad vision. And he knows he’s simply being teased, even then, but when Kyouji smiles down at him it looks fond. Loving, even. He realizes he has missed Kyouji so much it aches inside him.
Maybe that’s why he does it. Why he leans up and kisses him.
The scent of aftershave and shampoo floods his senses. Kyouji tastes like cigarettes and mouthwash. He tastes like lust and everything Satomi wants and all at once he realizes this is it. This is what has been missing. This is the high he’s been chasing with Kyouji all this time.
Kyouji’s whole body stiffens in surprise. Kyouji doesn’t move.
They have never kissed before. As if kissing implies something else, something more. Something that has never been offered nor promised.
But the boundary line has been crossed and Satomi does not relent. He doesn’t care. If this all has an expiration why not do whatever he wants? Why shouldn’t he get what he wants?
And Kyouji does not push him back, does not try to stop his frantic mouth or hands that scrabble up the curve of tattooed shoulders and up to tangle in his hair. And eventually Kyouji’s hips start working again.
Kyouji is still hard and buried in him, after all.
Kyouji lets himself be kissed and eventually, finally, kisses him back. What had he decided? What changed his mind? Tongue on his lip, in his mouth and against his own. Kyouji kisses him back and then kisses his face, down his neck. He tightens fingers in Kyouji’s hair as stubble scrapes against his skin. Real. Closer. More real. This is the only real thing. He squeezes his eyes shut.
There is only the press of Kyouji’s heavy body down on him, breath hot against his neck where it stutters in time to his hips. When he rakes nails down his neck, Kyouji groans, teeth grazing against his jaw. He wraps his arms around Kyouji’s shoulders.
And then Kyouji shifts over him and there’s no time to prepare himself before a hand around his cock jerks him in time with the thrusts. It’s rough and too fast, the familiar frenzied pace he’s used to. And he’s over the edge already, coming across his stomach with a groan, open mouthed and too loud. It’s a sound that terminates into panting sobs against Kyouji’s neck when he doesn’t stop stroking, like he wants to work every drop of pleasure free from his body. He feels lightheaded with it, mind fuzzy and room blurred.
Kyouji leans close enough so that he can see the hungry glint in his eyes through his tears. The way he is being observed.
He realizes he has been babbling his name, Kyouji, Kyouji, Kyouji, like he is pleading, begging, needing more. It sounds thin, high and whining when he hears it. He wants to say something more, he thinks. He wants to say something stupid. But when Kyouji simply tilts his head with a smirk he stops himself. He won’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Kyouji leans down and licks his upper lip.
“Hold onto me, kiddo.”
He does. Kyouji lets him hold on tightly and cover his face in kisses. Kyouji presses close, fucking him hard and fast.
——
Afterwards, after Kyouji has come and tossed the condom and cleaned them both up, he lays still curled in the blankets against the chill and watches Kyouji.
Kyouji, moving easy around his apartment and rattling around the kitchen. Kyouji, half dressed now in only his black slacks, chest and arms bare, humming tuneless. The quiet of the apartment seems to have resolved itself with the new sounds of life. He can hear the muffled conversation of neighbors, the kids calling to each other in the courtyard as they return home from school. The sun will be setting soon. He will need to get ready for work. Satomi shuts his eyes.
It feels easier now, somehow, like Kyouji has always been there. The feeling of regret hasn’t hit him yet. Maybe it won’t this time.
Maybe he just needed to be reminded, needs to be fucked before he can return to normal again. Maybe Kyouji fixes something broken in him every time they do this. Kyouji, his healing wound.
Eyes open again, he tracks Kyouji’s movements, eyes falling as always to the tattoo that sticks out among all the others. Something permanent. Something forever.
Maybe.
Kyouji returns from the kitchen with persimmons sliced, arranged in one of his chipped Daiso bowls. He has picked the one with the dancing cats around the rim. And Kyouji returns to the futon, sitting at his side and lifting a piece of bright orange fruit, holding it between finger and thumb like a slice of sunshine in the grey afternoon light.
When Satomi simply opens his mouth, Kyouji smiles, placing the fruit between his lips.