The sky was pitch-black, like spilled ink and coffee; the rain heavy in its downpour. The first thing Futakuchi Kenji did, when stepping out of the twenty-story office building he worked in, was to ask God, in a silent, intent prayer, what he deserved this punishment for. The next thing: turn up his collar and run.
Futakuchi Kenji hated rain. It ruined his shoes, dark blotches and ugly spots all over; it ruined his clothes, sticking wet and hanging limp from him like something disturbingly alien; it ruined his mood, already dark as the pavement he was running along. But worst of all: it ruined his hair, made it sloppy and messy and slightly curly, like badly done waves losing their spring.
Futakuchi Kenji hated rain, yet, in this very moment, he hated himself even more, for having forgotten his umbrella at home.
The water splashed happily under his soles, landing unseen but not unnoticed on his pant legs and staining them here and there and everywhere. It was twelve minutes past seven, the train would be leaving in three, and Futakuchi could not remember having run this fast ever since he had finished high school seven years ago.
Tokyo’s streets were glistening, car head lights and neon ad signs and blurry orange street lamps painting pictures on the asphalt and cobble, the rain’s rushing blending things together like watercolors on parchment. The sounds were all haze, the soft lights like reflections in aluminium mirrors, the people all the same; bleak figures melting into the background, the only distinguishable feature about them the colors of their raincoats and umbrellas.
The city flew by as he ran, down to the main road, past the 7/11 where Futakuchi might have gotten some cover but would have missed his train; pat pat pat impatient foot slapping against pavement when he had to wait for green.
He sprinted, lungs heavy, felt himself starting to sweat despite the chilly wind cutting at his bare cheeks and for Lord’s sake, if he ended up with a cold…
The curse flew silently from his lips, the train would leave in about a minute, the steps down to the subway station melted away as he jumped, long legs flying, taking three at a time.
His card was, thankfully, in his coat pocket. He swiped it, the gates opened, Futakuchi rushed down down down, disregarding the elevator and guard rails, pushed a young couple aside, spat out an apology they could not have quite caught: he was long since past them.
A crowd of people, black brooding mass, tried to fill into the train, pushing and snapping like a multi-headed guard dog from a tale; there, thankfully, and not late, Futakuchi could do nothing but wait. It was noisy, as always, but at least dry. He lifted a hand, scratched gently at his neck, damp even through the scarf.
The platform never emptied. It was a living thing, writhing and coiling with mouths here and there to spit people in and chew them back up, but it was never empty: Futakuchi had to make sure to actually get onto the train and not get lost in the moment he closed his eyes for a few seconds to rest.
Finally, after what seemed like minutes but could not have been more than few tens of seconds, he crossed the „Do not cross“-line and squeezed into the massively over-filled tube; the doors would have just closed behind him but a last person -heavily built and tall and running- jumped in at the final second. Futakuchi ended up jammed into a train door corner by the man’s bulge: he was brutal, grated down by labor, self-imposed or not, and something flared in Futakuchi, weakly, beside the desire to say an ill-mannered thing or two.
Strong arms, dirty tight-knit mouths, cutting teeth and huge dicks - but not tonight. Not when he was in this mood and the pissing weather made him look like a drowning poodle.
Just as Futakuchi wanted to turn away with a sour glare and stare out the glass doors, smooth dark wall rumbling away outside of it, ignoring the arm pressing up against his and the drops falling from the man’s umbrella down onto Futakuchi’s feet, the man beside him spoke.
It was a rough voice; scruffy like a three-day beard, and strangely, it made Futakuchi think of exactly that. Of cheeks scratching his, of worn hands and worn mouths feeling endlessly gentle, of feelings so genuine they made Futakuchi’s chest hurt. This was not his anymore, this could not be-; he looked up and stared, dumbfounded.
The name slipped from him louder than intended, a shout that made heads turn, and Futakuchi met eyes streaking him with an unamused scowl. People turned away and he looked back at the man, no, guy. Suddenly, as if a soap bubble had been popped, everything fell into place. Light hair, strong jaw, straight nose, wide mouth. Sideburns still. Handsome, but not overly; muscly, but not too much; chest stretching the white button-up tight under a dark coat, lines as familiar to Futakuchi as his own body’s.
He was smiling and Futakuchi hated him for it; he was looking at him and Futakuchi burned up with a fever.
Kamasaki lifted a finger to Futakuchi’s chin and pushed upwards gently, almost laughing now. With a shock, Futakuchi closed his mouth. The red of the cold had not yet left his face and he was thankful for it: it was a good excuse.
"It’s really you….I can’t believe it. I thought I was seeing a ghost when I followed you into the station, but it’s you."
"You…followed me?“ Futakuchi grimaced, obnoxious as he could, trying to remember what it was like back in high school, when he had been able to piss Kamasaki off just like that, with a word or a glance or a gesture.
Kamasaki, who had looked him up and down as if checking for broken bones, met his eyes again, and laughed.
"God, no, I don’t mean…I have to take this train, too, for real. To get back to my place. Where are you headed?"
He worked the words up easy, they spilled from him like water from an open bottle and Futakuchi didn’t know what to make of it. It had been him who had not known how to shut up, back then. But back then was not now and college felt like ages ago and Yasushi must be…twenty-six by now…it was hard to pretend he did not remember when their birthdays fell a day apart: when birthdays had stopped being fun long ago.
With a sigh, Futakuchi realized how tired he was. How tired, how used, how old. With a sigh, Futakuchi answered.
When they left the station, it was still raining. Less heavy now, less droplets the size of small pebbles, but insistently still; Futakuchi made a small noise of disgust and tapped the nose of his right shoe on the last bit of dry pavement in the station’s exit - three quick taps as if for good luck. It was a habit he had developed back in school, done before leaving home and after coming out of practice; it had followed him around like an old dog. Kamasaki smiled, the tilted line of his mouth sly with amusement, and grabbed for his umbrella.
"You still do that.“ There was no doubt about what he meant. It was a part of him ever since forever and Kamasaki, Futakuchi wasn’t ashamed to admit, was the person who knew him better than anyone.
"Nothing. You’re cute.“ It was said blatantly, lazily almost, while Kamasaki was still fumbling with the slider and Futakuchi stared at him, mouth coming slack again. Quickly biting his lip he turned away, looking out at the dark of the night, suddenly furious. It was evening by now, past 8 pm, and, considering, even though he didn’t want to walk so close, he wanted to stay dry more.
"You coming or what?"
The train ride had gone by quickly, more quickly than ever before, almost regrettably so. They had talked about this and this and that, about work, mostly, about private life, least. After their break up Futakuchi had stayed with his company, had worked his ass off with nothing else to focus on. It was worth it, in some ways, he got a bigger office the next year and a decent rise in payment the one after that. It was far from what he had hoped to do with his life but it was not bad. Boring, maybe, just a bit. Just as life.
Kamasaki had left, Futakuchi found out, had dropped his uncle’s cars and gone into white-collar work even without having graduated from college. He was mechanical engineer auxiliary in a medical lab, he said, with content in his voice. It was good work, required steady hands and sharp eyes and with a pang Futakuchi realized Kamasaki loved his job. It was a feeling like vodka mixed with lime burning in one's throat, Futakuchi didn’t know what to do with the tangible loss of words. Yasushi had never wanted to go to college in the first place, but the reason he didn’t in the end had been Futakuchi; he had had to work full-time or they could not have afforded their apartment, not with Futakuchi’s part-time waiting job and huge tuition fees. He had never thanked him properly for that, Futakuchi realized, and suddenly there was ice added to the drink stuck in his throat. There had not been a good opportunity, of course, not with the way things went, not with the sound of breaking glass still ringing in Futakuchi’s ears whenever he remembered that night three years ago. But still…
He was single, also. Kamasaki was single, had moved, as it turned out, into an apartment across the street from Futakuchi’s, how funny was that. No, he really wasn’t following Futakuchi around, it was just a coincidence.
"Hilarious,“ Futakuchi had puffed and Kamasaki’s gaze had gone long long long like rubber band, trailing the lines of Futakuchi’s face.
"What about you?"
"What about me, what? I moved there about…two years ago now. Good place. Still city."
"No, I mean, do you-"
"Are you seeing anyone?“ Futakuchi had caught the gaze, then, caught it and squeezed it tight and tried to take its air and kill it, muffle it to silence. But Yasushi had always been stronger than him, broader, more shoulders, more arms, more chest, just more.
"No,“ Futakuchi had said, looking away, wordless, glum, wanting to be mean, unable to. There was no need for Kamasaki to know about that. Not that he would see, anyway.
They walked beside each other now, silent but not uncomfortable, shoulders bumping, arms brushing. Kamasaki was holding the umbrella, more above Futakuchi’s head than his own, but Futakuchi did not correct him. Once, they stopped, almost home, when Kamasaki quietly asked Futakuchi to hold the umbrella for a moment; his shoe laces had untangled.
It was October, too early for gloves, and Futakuchi’s naked fingers closed around Kamasaki’s hand halfway when taking the stick into his. Warm it was, like it used to be, generous and gentle and giving and Futakuchi wanted to cling to it, just for a bit; so he let go. There was no time for this nor space, he decided long ago that all that came with Kamasaki’s warm hands was not for him.
"I don’t love you,“ he had said, again and again, until Yasushi had left and taken all of it with him, all the bags, all the gold.
Minutes later they arrived at Futakuchi’s apartment building, nine floors, new build, simplistic. Futakuchi fumbled with the key, put it in the lock, turned. Kamasaki was standing close to him so he’d be under the porch roof instead of in the rain; the umbrella was hanging by his side, dripping; his hair was laced with water drops like diamonds, glittering in the overly bright porch light. He was smelling of falling water and cheap aftershave. The combination of it made Futakuchi’s head spin, made him look up into eyes he had unlearned to read, and bite his lip, more pout than teeth.
He knew what he was doing, of course. He was in control, it would never go too far. He just wanted to…try. To see whether he could make him weak, still; whether Kamasaki was just a man, after all.
Futakuchi could tell, by the way his breathing caught, heavy in his throat; by the way his shoulders tensed and he leaned in, by the way his free hand jerked, awkwardly, forward, fingers flexing; by the way his gaze caught on Futakuchi’s teeth like a fish on a hook, the shallow way he exhaled when Futakuchi let go of his bottom lip to smile, amused and coy.
This was easy like breathing. He knew he could have Kamasaki out of his clothes and in his bed in a matter of minutes; tomorrow they would find his tie in the elevator and a shoe in the corridor leading to Futakuchi’s door.
Futakuchi closed his eyes, for just a second. Tomorrow would never come.
He rolled back down from the balls of his feet: he had risen to tiptoes unconsciously but there was no need to. A light went out in Kamasaki’s eyes and he looked like he might laugh, bitterly. Only a chuckle made it past his now closed lips, only a sigh as worn thin as an old shirt. It looked good on him, not getting what he wanted. Futakuchi turned to push the entrance door open and looked over his shoulder one last time.
"Goodnight, then,“ Kamasaki said, slightly harsher than before, rough-edged like a bread knife, scraping over Futakuchi’s skin. The shiver down his spine came quietly, treacherous, a thief in the night.
He blinked once, Kamasaki was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He blinked twice, Kamasaki was leaving. He did not blink thrice before asking.
"Do you want some coffee?"
Kamasaki’s Oxfords, Futakuchi noticed with horror, were well-worn. Well-worn with the backs broken supple by the many times they had been stepped onto in a hurry, careless of what it would do to the shoe. Kamasaki took them off just like that, grinding his toes into one heel and then another. They really were the ones Futakuchi had given him for his twenty-first birthday, among other things. Something about this simple fact made Futakuchi’s stomach jump and drop low.
Kamasaki didn’t notice. He stepped inside, looking this way and that, and Futakuchi hurried around him, picking up shirts and underwear and loose wrappers, of sweets and buns alike.
"You haven’t changed…“ Kamasaki sounded rakish, gleefully gloating, eyes darting from one chaos to the next.
"Oh, shut up,“ Futakuchi snapped, throwing a last arm full of mess into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, and pointed towards the leather couch sitting in the middle of his living room, a sleek, vast-spaced beauty, black and polished.
"No, you really haven’t. You still know how to make the most of a room.“ Kamasaki grinned over his shoulder, slipping out of his coat to throw it casually over the back of a bar stool by the open-kitchen counter, loosening his tie in the process. He landed on the couch with a soft oomph, broad-legged and occupying, smoothing his hands over his knees and leaning back with a content grunt.
Despite himself, Futakuchi smiled, sourly, and moved into the kitchen to prepare some drinks. He didn’t ask how Kamasaki liked it. He didn’t have to.
Two cups were just placed on two saucers when Kamasaki settled on a stool opposite of Futakuchi, the counter as their barrier and so, the coffee about to be poured.
"I was looking for the remote and…where’s your trash can?"
Kamasaki was grinning, painfully, holding up a small golden wrapper ripped at a side; the words "magnum“ were on it, Futakuchi knew, but he could not tell which kind it was - he had all of them, somewhere in these rooms at least.
"Oh. Sorry about that.“ He snatched the packaging away quickly, dropping it in the trash as if trying to make the subject vanish before it appeared.
"I thought you weren’t seeing anyone.“ Kamasaki sounded like that still, half amused, half aching, words pressed paper-thin between his lips, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to this. He probably didn’t.
"I’m not. Stop asking, it’s none of your business."
Kamasaki looked as if he might argue, a clenched fist on the counter, a set of gritted teeth in his mouth, but he didn’t.
"Take your coffee,“ Futakuchi instructed, picking up his own cup and walking around and past Kamasaki as if he weren’t there. It was none of his business. So what, so what any of it. He liked to play, he liked the distraction, he liked it how he did, God damn anonymous and over as soon as they were out the door. Glass broke again, in his ears, distant, as if time made itself space.
"I don’t love you. I only love myself, when will you fucking get it."
How true it was. What a good liar Futakuchi knew how to be.
Thirteen minutes passed before Kamasaki asked if Futakuchi had a beer.
They had settled on the couch, Kamasaki quite proper right in the middle, Futakuchi, for lack of other seating arrangements, squeezed into the corner. He loved this sofa, it was comfortable and smooth to touch, slick against naked skin, soft but with resistance when you need it, well kept. That’s why he had abandoned arm chairs and settled for only this.
The TV was showing some comedy sit-com Yasushi seemed to like; his stupid laugh was huge like a bear’s roar, real down to the last bit of it, full of lungs and all belly, turning into snickering here and there; it was a sound so much of a synonym for ‚home‘ that Futakuchi asked himself how he could have forgotten about it. The show wasn’t even funny. Futakuchi wasn’t really paying attention.
After some time he had relaxed, with the way Kamasaki had leaned into the leather as if he owned it, legs far from him, comfortably apart, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He would have taken the shirt off, if there had been a short sleeve beneath; there wasn’t. Futakuchi had kept staring at his hands, full of cuts and old scars, lying comfortably in his lap. They could hold the whole world in them, those hands. They had once, for Futakuchi. It was awful.
"Of course I have beer,“ is what he said, playfully offended, pushing himself up from the sofa. He could have just walked around the corner but oh. Roughly, he pushed past Kamasaki’s feet and the coffee table, pretending clumsiness where none was, almost falling, blocking out the sight with his body.
"Hey, I’m watching that..."
A hand lost fingers on Futakuchi's upper thigh, steadied him, guided him past. By the time Futakuchi looked back, Kamasaki’s eyes were on the screen, his shoulders relaxed with ease.
A few minutes later, they weren’t anymore.
"I’m sorry, what?"
"Was that- Why did you- Kenji!"
And Futakuchi laughed, at the way Yasushi clasped his neck where the cold beer had touched his bare skin, warm and sensitive.
"Ice-cold Heineken, your favorite.“
Kamasaki eyed him, wary, before flinging an arm over the couch’s back to turn halfway and look at Futakuchi properly. Full impact.
"I thought you hate that stuff?"
"Sometimes you crave something you hate, right?"
Futakuchi placed the bottle, dripping with condensate, into Kamasaki’s free hand, taking a gulp from his own while settling on the sofa again. He could feel Kamasaki’s eyes on his face, they were burning trails along his jaw and neck and down his temple, like fire fingers, laser beams.
"Watch your show.“
But it was a lie, as clear as summer-blue skies, Kamasaki’s head was still turned towards Futakuchi and Futakuchi could hear himself swallow as he put the bottle to his lips, way too loud a sound to his own ears.
His breathing stopped right about when Kamasaki’s fingers brushed back the few loose bangs hanging into his face, a gesture light as bird feathers on skin. There was a chance Kamasaki didn’t even mean for it to happen; it just did - muscle memory.
Futakuchi had to stifle the sudden shudder running all through him, a violent, boiling wave breaking against the icy shore of his heart, of his skin of stone. Stop it, he wanted to say. Leave. But he did not and Kamasaki’s gaze finally left him for the TV screen, his arm falling back onto the couch’s back rest. Gratefully, Futakuchi exhaled, as quietly as he could.
Futakuchi loved to say, later on, that what happened next had been unconscious. He'd just relaxed, he’d been at home, after all, and Kamasaki had been nothing more than an old friend.
Yasushi would laugh, softly, and agree. It had been unconscious, the way Futakuchi slid closer to the middle with each commercial break, more comfortable with every joke; unconscious, the way their legs tangled up in a long-limbed mess; unconscious, when he leaned back and met the arm residing there; unconscious, the way he put his head to rest in the crook of Kamasaki’s neck, just as he used to, cuddling up to him.
It was completely conscious, Yasushi would say, how he himself reacted to it, slinging his arm around the seemingly delicate frame of Futakuchi’s shoulders when he was finally near enough; pressing him closer and rubbing little circles into the tense muscle.
It was completely conscious when Kamasaki turned his head to press his mouth to Futakuchi’s hair, smelling of lemon and pine woods, when he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; a completely intentional „I missed you.“ murmured right against the softness of Futakuchi’s ear, causing him to stiffen, hum in return, and relax again.
It was ironic, almost, how naturally they worked together, sliding into each other as if two pieces carved from one; how well Futakuchi fit against Kamasaki's sharply angled line, how easy it was for Futakuchi to say Fuck it. and turn his head, ignored anticipation burning under his skin.
Their mouths met, wet and still like a lake.
Stirring the waters, gently, Kamasaki’s hand lay down on Futakuchi’s neck, fingers hot, pulling him forward, closer. He tasted of disgusting beer and a deep layer of coffee and an addictive harshness; Futakuchi’s hands grabbed onto Kamasaki’s loosened shirt as if for life support.
It was over fast, the soft-mouthedness, the cool clinging touches and quick fleeting kisses; Futakuchi recognized the feeling in his stomach, a wild-fire in the making, like flint against flint on woods and branches too dry: They would soon tear at each other like animals fighting for meat, raw and bloody work, godless pleasure.
Futakuchi pulled away, cheeks cherry in the TV light, brought his bottle up to his lips and drank, a few deep swings, lips wet and lashes lowered. He knew this look on Kamasaki’s face, he had seen it too many times, he was ready for it: Bite marks of red and bruises as purple as dawn, all over his body.
He pulled himself up into standing, put his almost empty bottle onto the coffee table carefully, and kicked a graceful leg over Kamasaki’s - seating himself in his lap like a cat, pliable and sweet with leisure and practice. The buttons of his shirt flew open under his fingers as if pulled apart by magnets; Kamasaki’s hands on his bare waist slid him closer with a yank and Futakuchi felt the laugh sitting in his chest, relieved as a child's, he still wants me.
A hand in his neck, pulling his head down harshly, crushing their mouths together in an angry attempt to fight the urge to just fuck, to rip everything off and have it all nownownow. Kamasaki’s teeth grazed his bottom lip, and Futakuchi bit back, catching lip between fangs and pulling until it must have hurt. A growl played deep in Kamasaki’s throat, a riled game of stop fucking with me; Futakuchi had to laugh again, softly against his mouth, breathless, a luscious giggle laced into an open-mouthed kiss.
"Shit,“ was what Yasushi breathed when Futakuchi began moving, not a single jerk in his fluidity; not one unintentional slip-up; all slow, relentless rhythm, each time his hips pulled back they ground deeper, asking for more. Kamasaki was hard against him, already; his neck, by now, covered in little marks, territorial as ever and Futakuchi kept adding onto them, hands picking apart the buttons of his shirt like plucking grapes from a vine. Kamasaki’s breathing grew less and less steady for him, chest pushing, exhales hitching sweetly for every time they touched right.
But it was slow, too slow, there were hands on Futakuchi’s hips, nails digging into the peach-soft skin right above belt line, pulling and pulling and pulling at him, pushing them together in a flood of bucking hips and soft-growled curses; Futakuchi moaned against Kamasaki’s neck, a noise real and trembling in the hazy semi-darkness surrounding them, a noise Kamasaki knew, he recognized it, and his hands cupped Futakuchi’s face and pulled him up into a kiss, the rhythm he had set never ceasing - Futakuchi didn’t know how to slow down.
It was almost too late when Kamasaki finally got them up; they were almost done for the first time but not like this, they didn't do like this. It was what they were best at, after all - fucking. It was what had kept them alive even when Futakuchi had started to pull away and into distractions, even when Kamasaki had come home from the job, dissatisfied and grumpy, even when none of them had been up to it - a single word had been enough. A word like a spark, flying, catching fire, the argument over nothing rising high high high like their voices until they would be shouting and once their blood boiled it was good enough: A single tear in their constructed frame of ‚order‘ and they would fall to the floor, rolling around like beasts, all pinned arms with hands and knees, all sharp-filed claws and sharper teeth, all bashing in of skulls and dreams, all fuck me fuck me fuck me, please.
Kamasaki hefted him upwards with a soft huff, easy like a doll, and Futakuchi kissed him, right there, all tongue, intently, honestly, a deep breath pouring from one mouth into another without a word lost, a thank you lost in the invisible space between them.
His smell, Futakuchi thought, gasping for air, words like marbles in his minds, rolling, coiling, filling him up; his smell, the cologne and the sweat and the rain on his skin, his skin, blooming red where Futakuchi’s nails dug in, drawn tight over hard muscle, cheeks feverish, his hands, sliding down Futakuchi’s hips and thighs as if over naked flesh, hoisting him up a little higher, mouth on mouth and then he whispers, harsh, a violent beat throbbing under skin, desire made liquid; "Do you want this? (Let me fuck you, God, I want you, God, I never stopped)“ and there was one answer only.
Futakuchi panted it, they were already moving, from wall to wall, hands over his head, tongue for tongue, "Yes“ and more, his lips are on Futakuchi’s neck, his shirt falling to the floor at the corner to the bedroom, his hair was almost too short between Futakuchi’s fingers, he wanted to grip, to rip, to let himself be torn to pieces and reassembled - made anew like he knew Yasushi could.
Futakuchi pushed the bedroom door open with his foot as if it was the easiest thing; as if he had, a thousand times before. He hadn’t. That bed was his, his alone, he fucked them everywhere, the kitchen counter, the shower, against every god damn wall, the leather, when he wanted to feel it, but never, never the bed.
It was soft, the way Kamasaki threw him, too soft Futakuchi landed, too sweet; he wanted it angry, he wanted it painful, dirty and fast and over. Kamasaki’s hands were swift with himself and then good, way too good on Futakuchi - picking his belt apart with clicking, taking his time, the button, the fly, open-mouthed marks, red like wounds, left on Futakuchi’s skin, covering old bruises with new ones, hip bones, down his thighs; it was worship, breathless worship, Futakuchi pulled his leg from Kamasaki’s hands and wanted to say something, anything, make it break, fall apart. He didn’t get the chance.
Yasushi leaned forward, covered Futakuchi's mouth with his own, covered the tears and made them disappear, closed around Futakuchi, selfish, right. "Just let me…"
"I don’t love you."
"I don’t love you…"
"Just let me make you feel it. Kenji, please…"
Futakuchi’s legs opened by themselves, his chest rose, his whole body curled into this, needy, greedy, waiting for a fix. He could not say a word, not a word of all the ones there were, nothing came out of his mouth but Kamasaki knew what to look for. He didn’t miss the slight nod, he didn’t miss the shiver when his hand trailed down Futakuchi’s ribs, he didn’t miss a thing. By reflex he reached for the bedside table on the right, the way they had held it, and found what he had been looking for.
It was easy from here. They played a play, the mattress was their stage and the dark was their audience and their performance was perfection. It was the same addictive combination as every other God damn time, what were three years when you knew him like you didn’t want to know anyone else. It was just as Futakuchi had thought it would be: the heat that pulled at them from their insides met and they burned each other up, licking like flames against concrete covered in gasoline, torching it all down, every lie ever told; ecstatic with release.
Broken love and promises and trust turned to touch, turned to lust, right down to the last desperately panted "Right there“;
to "I want you“; with his cock in your mouth -
to "Let me fuck you“; his tongue pulling you apart from the inside -
to "You are beautiful“; on all fours with your back arched up against him, skin slapping, moans drowning -
to rope tight backs and sore knees, to shoulders and backs whipped bloody by fingers and nails.
They didn’t know how to be lovely, only how to snap, how to tear, how to break, how to scream it so the neighbors would hear - harder, harder, faster, more.
Maybe this is what made him love Kamasaki, Futakuchi thought. The way he made him feel, like he wasn’t lacking life, as if everything he could ever need was right there, as if his whole world became feeling him, skin against skin, on him, in him, everywhere, his words in Futakuchi’s ear, his hands on Futakuchi’s chest, around his neck, choking him, killing him, just right, just enough to make it feel real.
He made Futakuchi feel like a God; complete, worthwhile, powerful, gaining everything by losing control the way they did. There was nothing secretive about it, nothing tied up or tied down, they were bare to each other like freshly honed blades, sharp enough to cut, bloody sweet ache, crisp like winter mornings, crimson on snow.
They were tangled, somewhere one began and the other ended. Futakuchi turned his head back, the hand in Kamasaki’s hair gripped tighter, pulled him down to meet mouths, hungry jaws feasting, never satisfied.
"I said leave."
Kamasaki grinned against his mouth. His hand was silver quick down Futakuchi’s ribcage, and then it was still around Futakuchi; every push from behind made his cock slip through Kamasaki’s fingers, drawing him tighter bit by bit, like a bow, like a violin string you wanted to let sing the highest note before the inevitable snap.
The word was low-spoken, teasing, expected.
"Stop…hah.“ There was something Futakuchi had wanted to say, it had just been there on his tongue but everything was blank now; a sound followed his exhale, succulent and over-ripe, honey-sweet, "more..."
Yasushi was too good with him, his hand tightened a bit, the circle became rounder, smaller, his teeth ground into Futakuchi’s shoulder, affectionate almost; this wasn’t fucking anymore. It was slower than that, rhythm they could keep up all night if they wanted to, smooth movements, reaching all the way, slick with practice and come, sex like kisses with too much tongue, like drunk make-outs in the last booth of the bar, sex like hands on ass and grinding in jeans and mouths tasting of too much wine and smoked joints and lust.
They kept it up all night.
It was still dark when Futakuchi woke up the next morning; a Friday.
His head was throbbing, a dull hurt at his temples. He was achy and sore and there was an arm slung around his waist, a chest pressed against his back, a nose tickling the arch of his neck with each breath.
It took Futakuchi a few minutes to loosen up, limbs jerky; a few more to free himself. The clock was shining 06:37 AM. The green of the numbers made him feel a bit sick. What a disgusting, perfect morning.
Futakuchi looked back at the bed a last time, turning in the door frame. Kamasaki had buried his face in Futakuchi's pillow instead, the sheet barely covered his lower half; he looked soft in the semi-darkness, blury at the edges like an old photograph, relaxed, fitting. Right.
Futakuchi’s hair was still wet when he stepped into the kitchen, his mouth finally without taste on his tongue. The sound of the coffee maker was comforting, an anchor, making it real. This was still his life, his apartment, his kitchen. His pants he would have to pick up from the floor, his work he would have to arrive at soon, his fucking coffee pouring into his favorite mug. Futakuchi blinked, slowly, trying to focus on the smell of the freshly ground beans, earth and roast and chocolate.
With a sigh, Futakuchi turned. Kamasaki was leaning against the counter, broad hands planted firmly, supporting muscular arms. At least he had put boxers on. And a shit-eating grin, too, as it seemed. Futakuchi placed the mug he had prepared for himself in front of him.
Kamasaki was looking at him, expectant, leaning in. He smelled like Futakuchi’s own shower gel. It was distracting as fuck. Futakuchi sighed again, heavy, sick, and pushed their lips together, short and close-mouthed. It felt so right he almost punched the fridge. Pointing at the cup, he shrugged. "I already put some sugar in."
"It’s alright.“ Kamasaki was still grinning like an idiot, and Futakuchi was tempted to ask whether he had fucked the last of his brains out last night but didn’t; instead, he pushed a sour worm from the package next to the coffee machine into his mouth and chewed angrily, waiting for his drink to be done. How tedious.
Two spoons of sugar, milk, another sour gummy in his mouth.
"Is that all you have for breakfast?"
"Don’t give me that shit, you can make your own if you want to."
Kamasaki laughed at that, heartily, his chest growing large with lungs fully used. It was too loud for such an early morning. It made the weak sun filtering in through the window shine brighter. Futakuchi was in pain.
"Oh, by the way…,“ Kamasaki, now settled on a bar stool, slapped something on the counter. This time it was pink, though still ripped at one side, still small and still square. For God’s sake.
"I stepped on it in the bathroom…you might as well get rid of all of them."
Futakuchi’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "What? Why the hell would I get rid of them?"
"Well…,“ Kamasaki chuckled, leaning onto an elbow, slurping some coffee and making a face at the sweetness of it. "Not like we ever used them, anyway."
Futakuchi punched him in the face.
Yasushi brought his toothbrush over the next day. A month later he brought back his all.