Stand-Alone: Makka (Scarlet): Part 1
Title: Makka (Scarlet)
Part: 1/3
Pairing: OshiGaku. Oops, I should probably have mentioned that last night. ^^;
Rating: Sunset
Notes: Otherwise known as the temps_mort three-pager that multiplied by ten. ^^; Said three-pager is the beginning of this particular section, just for refresher. Note, however, that yes, there's more to it, now. ^^; If you want to see this story as a prologue to Hyotei Roommates, you can, really. Technically, this part is smutless--it's pretty adult-themed, however; hence, the rating.
For: ...gods, too many people to name. *laugh* But especial love for becchan, whose bunny this originally was... and typhoid_mary, who's really the very best beta, unofficial or official, EVER. <33 So much love, ladies.
Disclaimer: No, definitely not mine. *chuckles*
Prologue: Nashi (Without)
The courts were cold, not cool, but he wasn't shivering, even underneath the thin lining of his Hyotei jacket. Oshitari Yuushi didn't shiver. It wasn't simply a matter of control--when the cold was a slim, steep pillar within, as the last girl who had shared his bed had spat at him when he'd raised an eyebrow and simply held the door for her to leave, of course he never particularly felt cold. So she'd told him, and the very thought of it was absurd, but he wasn't shivering now.
Perhaps, he noted, almost abstractly, the contrast of the thin reminder of heat washing over his hands, his face, from the clubroom's open door, remnant of the heating that someone had already turned off, against the quick teeth of the cold at his back, was enough to counter the February wind from tennis courts darkened already by sunset.
Perhaps it was the sight of Gakuto being fucked in the clubroom, his pale knees shoved almost to his shoulders with every thrust and his eyes squeezed closed as he panted, hair a sweat-bright contrast against his face like cherries broken on a sidewalk, that left him colder than the wind, and what was so frozen could not well shiver.
He knew what his roommate was like. He had often been told that he was skilled at observation--and he would not have needed sublime observational skills in order to figure out that Mukahi Gakuto enjoyed a good fuck for its own sake. He had said as much, after all. No... emotional nonsense, or tearful attachment, or random strings--perhaps that was why Gakuto preferred boys. (Oshitari had read, somewhere, that a certain hormonal change caused women to form emotional attachments after sexual encounters; if that were indeed so, the first occasion of this happening would have terrifed Gakuto away with such haste that the thought of his partner running away with arms windmilling had made Oshitari smile.) There was nothing wrong with such little pleasures, naturally, and he'd always just shaken his head, amused, at the thought of Mukahi enjoying himself.
For Oshitari, sex was an occasional pastime he indulged in, now and again--gender was not of any particular importance, and with that strawberry-scented crimson hair and large, wildly violet eyes within such easy reach, he'd taken it as a given that Gakuto would come to him, eventually, with that fey, mischievous smile on his lips. Not the whine that the tennis team had become so accustomed to hearing in the locker room, naturally--Mukahi might have been a twit, sometimes, but Oshitari had been rather surprised, in the beginning, to find that his roommate was quite the amusing twit. Oshitari thought--observed--that Gakuto knew how to seduce, and when simply to ask. He had done it a thousand times before, after all.
They had chosen to live together for mere expediency--Oshitari had known that Mukahi Gakuto had been accepted into Hyotei on the strength of his gymnastic ability, and yet Gakuto had inexplicably joined the tennis club, instead. It had fascinated him, this contrast--contrasts always did. (Like the way the hair against Gakuto's cheek did not move, now, not when sweat had darkened it to blood--not like the way it swished lightly over his shoulders when they played, together--tennis, only that.)
Study was not Oshitari's way, though calculation was, and it had amused him that even when they had been freshmen together, the brash, sweetly tasty young creature that was Mukahi had been as much of a show-off as the tennis prodigy Atobe Keigo. They had been mere acquaintances, then. And because he had been fascinated, it had been no trouble at all--because little indeed annoyed Oshitari, and few people found Mukahi anything but annoying--to ask the boy if he wanted to be roommates for their second year. Neither wanted to live with a stranger, and both wanted one of the deluxe double-room suites available in Hyotei's more expensive dorm buildings. It had been a convenient arrangement.
He had hoped for more than a simple... convenience, so to speak--expected it, to be certain. Oshitari knew what he looked like when the closet door opened and the mirror gave him back his face, his hair falling in a dark, finger-touched tumble. He knew that the glasses were not a detractor when one could see the slow smile in his dark eyes underneath them, and he knew he had made boys and girls alike shiver when he spoke, low and soft, his Kansai accent the quietest twang, ookini, matto ite kurehen ka? It was not mere conceit, after all, that had him brushing back the hair from a boy's face, a girl's shoulders, when he slid into them--and it was not lack of appreciation that he saw in Gakuto's blue-violet eyes, hungrily watching him walk from their shared bathroom back to his bedroom with a towel slung low around his hips, held in place by one casual hand.
It had been natural that he expect Gakuto to come to him... because what Oshitari wanted always came to him, in the end.
The opportunity had always been there, after all. They shared a common room if not bedrooms, and meals, and occasionally classes. He had shared his bed before, with others--and Mukahi was not a one to have cared for the supposed chastity of a man that he wanted to have, in any case. He asked, he demanded, he cocked his head with wry eyes twinkling--and Oshitari could not truly imagine anyone in their right mind turning away the way that small mouth quirked in a cocky smile or a sullen pout, the way his skin dewed evenly with sweat when he was somersaulting on a tennis court, and the way Gakuto's hips swung, just a little, whenever he moved. With no strings, why would anyone ever have thought of turning away what his roommate offered to anyone who caught his fancy?
And yet Gakuto merely looked into him, and then turned away, to another boy's touch, another man's bed.
It shouldn't have mattered. No, it shouldn't have mattered, because Oshitari Yuushi's sin was not pride, and his sense of security was not so easily damaged as that.
And yet, Oshitari wasn't sure when, exactly, he had started caring.
He forced himself to watch, wondering at why he still stood there--wondering why he cared at all. It was no different from any other day, or any other man. It was just Gakuto--just his roommate, just being slammed up against the lockers by every thrust from one of their senpai. It was just Gakuto wincing, just a little, every time one of the locks ground into him low and hard on his slender back, too thin for such rough treatment, his lower lip swollen and crimson from being bitten.
Gakuto would not have stood for that, he'd thought. It would leave bruises. (It was leaving bruises, he could see that the edge was a rough, reddish hue that would fade into a violet uglier than those familiar eyes.) It would mark the fair skin that his roommate took such pride in, with his lotion sitting on the ledge of the sink, weapon against the dry bite of a winter that still lingered. He wouldn't have stood for that, not the prissy little princess who complained when there wasn't enough ice in his water or when the food was too hot when it got to the table, because he hated it when he burnt his tongue.
Gakuto would not have stood for that, and yet some senior who wasn't even a Regular was pounding him into the lockers with Mukahi's ironed schoolpants in a crumpled, plaid heap on the floor beside them, and his eyes pinched closed with something akin to pain, mouth open in something like a cry that never emerged. And a lock digging into his back hard enough that Oshitari could already see a bruise forming.
It was strange. It was so very strange that he could not think of analysis, and his mind was blank and empty as the courts, because he had heard his roommate's cries in the other room--an expensive dorm, indeed, but a dorm was what it was--and Gakuto always cried out with pleasure. Screamed, actually. Such that their neighbours had knocked, once and again, and Oshitari had taken great pleasure in going to the door wearing nothing but his boxers and glasses and a raised eyebrow, as if demanding why they had been disturbed so rudely. It had always... amused him, before.
And yet...
Oshitari was slowly starting to realise that Gakuto was never going to come to him, and that he was never truly going to understand why.
Gakuto's eyes fluttered open, face turning sideways towards the cold rush of air, perhaps--though Oshitari could see that the one drowned in him, the one whose every thrust left a tense beat moving down his roommate's slim frame, did not even notice.
There was no time to move when the ice had captured his pulse.
Their eyes met--Oshitari felt the contact from stained, bruised violets resonate down his body (ah, he still could shiver, could still feel colder than he had been) as he saw small, soft lips, crimson-swollen and kissable as peaches, move silently in something that could have, almost, perhaps, been his name.
But it wasn't.
Of course, it wasn't.
Oshitari turned, slowly, and walked away with a straight back, his breathing cool, easy. Halfway to the dorm they shared he took off his glasses, because they would not stay on the bridge of his nose when tears kept catching on the nosepiece as they slipped, no longer hot by the time they caught on the edge of the soft plastic rounds.
He would have a cold pack ready for Gakuto to put on that bruise when he got back.
*_*_*_*
God, he felt dirty.
It was so weird, really. He'd had a shower, after he'd kicked that bastard Hiroe out of the locker room. The smell of sex and sweat was only fun when you were right in the middle of it, because otherwise it just got kind of ick. And now, he smelled oh-so-good, because he always kept a bottle of his very favourite strawberry shampoo, and the conditioner that went with it, in his locker--he had his own, already, and so did...
It didn't matter, did it?
He'd never been fucked against a locker before Hiroe'd just picked him up, that first time--big guy, Hiroe, and Gakuto didn't normally go for that kind, because he hated it when someone lay on his chest and he couldn't breathe. The locker thing hadn't been nearly as much fun as he'd thought it would be. He didn't know why he kept doing it. It... hurt.
Mukahi Gakuto frowned, and scuffed his shoe into the clay, looking over his shoulder. He couldn't see the bruises through his Jean Paul Gaultier shirt--but it was hard to admire the fine grain of the cloth when he could feel the ache underneath it, not just one place, and the last time he'd looked there had been the makings of a bruise almost the size of his fist just under the little curve of his waist, on his back. It wasn't the first one, either.
Fucking Hiroe.
Hard to say why he'd let Hiroe fuck him a couple of times, really. Hard to say why he'd let him do it once, at all, actually--sure, everyone thought Hiroe was hot stuff, but he wasn't really Gakuto's type (well, okay, he didn't really know what his 'type' was, but whatever it was, he was pretty sure that it wasn't Hiroe) and frankly, the chances of the guy making Regular any time this year, before he graduated, were looking really, really slim. Plus he was actually kind of bad in bed. Not bad, bad, but it'd gotten so kissing him was definitely not anything even like fun, and every time Hiroe wanted to try and shove his tongue down Gakuto's throat, Gakuto just sort of stuck his face somewhere else. And if he forced the issue, well, Gakuto bit him. Tongues just didn't belong where they weren't welcome.
That was easy. Sex always was.
Except... it just wasn't fun, anymore.
Hadn't been for, well, awhile.
Gakuto just didn't like thinking about exactly why he did things, sometimes. It was simpler to think that he liked sex--oh, hell, yeah, the harder he could get it, the better. He wouldn't break--he wasn't fragile like that, and anyone who had him in bed knew it.
That had been, well, real, once.
Today... today he'd felt for the first time like he would break, and maybe it didn't have anything to do with the way that damned lock had dug into his back, or maybe it did.
But pain wasn't fun. Sure, some people liked it, he knew, but--what the Hell, let the freaks be freaks, and leave him and his happy, fuckable little ass alone. He'd always thought that.
So why was he was walking around the tennis courts, hours after everyone else had left--his eyes were pretty damned good in the dark, he'd had lots of practice needing to use them in pitch-black--and he was pretty sure that it was past curfew? Like he ever cared about curfew. But whatever, none of that explained why he'd been walking back and forth, wanting to kick something, wanting to bite down on his lip until it bled, except it was already kind of sore where that asshole Hiroe had bitten him already. Friggin' bad kisser, Hiroe.
None of this explained why he just... didn't want to go home.
And why he couldn't get Yuushi's face out of his mind.
No! What the Hell--it wasn't like Yuushi'd never seen him in the middle of a good, hard fuck before. It was what he liked about Oshitari--sure, the guy was hot enough, even with those glasses, to have brought home more than a few girls, and Gakuto was pretty sure there'd been a guy, at least once, but, well, Oshitari didn't judge like that. Hell, Gakuto was pretty sure the reason the neighbours never bothered them anymore when it felt so damned good he just had to scream it out--and hadn't it been awhile since that'd happened, too?--was that Oshitari, brain that he was, had figured out some way to scare them off, an' they'd both found it all pretty damned funny the next morning.
Nothing bugged Oshitari Yuushi. Ever. So the sight of his roommate being slammed up against the clubroom lockers hadn't even made him blink, and he'd just stood there for a second--Gakuto was willing to bet it'd just been a second--before he'd just turned and walked away. Hadn't said anything. Normal.
Still, he could've at least looked... shocked, or something.
He could've...could've stopped Hiroe, maybe.
What the Hell. That would've been weird. And Gakuto would have killed him. Not that Hiroe was all that great a fuck, but still, whatever.
But...
But. Gakuto could see how Oshitari looked at him, and damned if that heat just behind all the frost and those glasses didn't make him shiver, sometimes. Maybe it was that smile, just the littlest tick up the corner of Oshitari Yuushi's mouth--or his big, graceful hands--or the way his Kansai accent made him sound like he purred whenever he was talking. He'd never found the Kansai accent sexy before--it was kind of girly, he'd always thought--but nothing about Yuushi was girly, not the way he walked, not the way he looked, and, Gakuto was willing to bet, not the way he fucked. He didn't need to hear the people moaning and calling his roommate's name to know that Oshitari was damned good in bed--he could tell just from watching him move.
Made Gakuto glad, really, he was normally a net player--if he'd had to watch Oshitari in front of him, all the time, he'd never have been able to play. The way those muscles moved like silk under his skin, the way his body stretched and played through each motion, those tight hips he'd thought about having tucked between his spread legs with his heels against that taut ass as Oshitari fucked him silly--yeah, he'd dreamed about it so many times. So fucking many times. Hell, if sex was supposed to be easy, and simple, why had there been a time or two when he'd closed his eyes and when he'd opened them again, been surprised not to see his partner?
So why not, right? He knew Oshitari wanted him--who wouldn't want him? And Yuushi wouldn't say no--no, he wouldn't, he'd grab him and push him up against the wall, and...
No. Anyone. Anyone but his roommate.
He didn't like to think about it. Sex was easy. Sex was fun, and everyone who ever got Gakuto's ass knew that that was all it was. Girls were such a pain, in how they always wanted to talk about it, and wanted to know if you loved them--it was simpler with guys. They just wanted a piece of Gakuto's ass, and it was easy for Gakuto to walk away afterwards.
But no-one ever walked away from Oshitari Yuushi, did they.
Well, fuck Oshitari. It wasn't like the bastard cared, anyway. Those eyes never missed anything, he must've seen that Gakuto was getting slammed back against a padlock, and he hadn't even looked shocked or anything. He'd probably thought Gakuto had liked it. Fuck Oshitari, fuck Hiroe, and...
Gakuto shoved the key into the lock with vicious pleasure. It was late. Yuushi was probably asleep by now, or something--it was late, the obnoxious curfew bells were gonna be ringing any moment, and there wasn't any light filtreing out from the common room, but...
But the light was on in the kitchenette, and Gakuto frowned.
Well, that was weird. Wasn't like his roommate to forget to kill the lights, 'cause, well, Yuushi was responsible like that. And... what was that, stuck to the fridge door...?
There's a cold-pack ready for you in the freezer. Good night, Gakuto.
Gakuto stared at the little note, written on a scrap of notebook paper torn just right along the little perforated lines. Whenever he tried to pull out a sheet, it always ended up with just a little ragged bit at the very end.
He felt... it was so weird, how his hands were shaking when he reached for the freezer door, but... but there was one of those ice packs, one of the ones with the blue gel stuff inside, that Oshitari didn't keep in the freezer, unless they were going to be used, because it ruined the gel to have it frozen all the time. And someone had wrapped it in a towel and tied it just at the end in a neat little knot--because Yuushi always said that it wasn't a good thing to put something frozen directly on a hurt, it shocked it, or something like that, though it was so weird to think that a hurt could be 'shocked.'
Yuushi... never missed anything.
It didn't explain why Gakuto's hands clutched, open and closed on the cold-pack as he sat down on his bed and pulled off his shirt with one hand, one tug over his head, and looked down at the bruise--no, the bruises, big ugly patches--on his back for a long, long time before he reached around himself and held the towel-wrapped cold pack to the new one just above his hip. It didn't explain anything at all about why he hadn't slapped the rat-bastard Hiroe silly, and walked out of there the first time he'd slammed him into a locker, a couple of days ago. It didn't explain why he was still letting Hiroe fuck him when it just wasn't much fun anymore.
But if he went to Oshitari's bed, it'd be fun. He knew that. Oh, Hell, yeah, he knew that.
But he'd never go.
Because, maybe, if he ever went to Oshitari's bed, he wouldn't be able to walk away. He wouldn't want to.
And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have anything to do with Oshitari at all.
*_*_*_*
Tsuzuku (to be continued) <--and how long HAS it been since I wrote that, I wonder...? ^^
Part: 1/3
Pairing: OshiGaku. Oops, I should probably have mentioned that last night. ^^;
Rating: Sunset
Notes: Otherwise known as the temps_mort three-pager that multiplied by ten. ^^; Said three-pager is the beginning of this particular section, just for refresher. Note, however, that yes, there's more to it, now. ^^; If you want to see this story as a prologue to Hyotei Roommates, you can, really. Technically, this part is smutless--it's pretty adult-themed, however; hence, the rating.
For: ...gods, too many people to name. *laugh* But especial love for becchan, whose bunny this originally was... and typhoid_mary, who's really the very best beta, unofficial or official, EVER. <33 So much love, ladies.
Disclaimer: No, definitely not mine. *chuckles*
Prologue: Nashi (Without)
The courts were cold, not cool, but he wasn't shivering, even underneath the thin lining of his Hyotei jacket. Oshitari Yuushi didn't shiver. It wasn't simply a matter of control--when the cold was a slim, steep pillar within, as the last girl who had shared his bed had spat at him when he'd raised an eyebrow and simply held the door for her to leave, of course he never particularly felt cold. So she'd told him, and the very thought of it was absurd, but he wasn't shivering now.
Perhaps, he noted, almost abstractly, the contrast of the thin reminder of heat washing over his hands, his face, from the clubroom's open door, remnant of the heating that someone had already turned off, against the quick teeth of the cold at his back, was enough to counter the February wind from tennis courts darkened already by sunset.
Perhaps it was the sight of Gakuto being fucked in the clubroom, his pale knees shoved almost to his shoulders with every thrust and his eyes squeezed closed as he panted, hair a sweat-bright contrast against his face like cherries broken on a sidewalk, that left him colder than the wind, and what was so frozen could not well shiver.
He knew what his roommate was like. He had often been told that he was skilled at observation--and he would not have needed sublime observational skills in order to figure out that Mukahi Gakuto enjoyed a good fuck for its own sake. He had said as much, after all. No... emotional nonsense, or tearful attachment, or random strings--perhaps that was why Gakuto preferred boys. (Oshitari had read, somewhere, that a certain hormonal change caused women to form emotional attachments after sexual encounters; if that were indeed so, the first occasion of this happening would have terrifed Gakuto away with such haste that the thought of his partner running away with arms windmilling had made Oshitari smile.) There was nothing wrong with such little pleasures, naturally, and he'd always just shaken his head, amused, at the thought of Mukahi enjoying himself.
For Oshitari, sex was an occasional pastime he indulged in, now and again--gender was not of any particular importance, and with that strawberry-scented crimson hair and large, wildly violet eyes within such easy reach, he'd taken it as a given that Gakuto would come to him, eventually, with that fey, mischievous smile on his lips. Not the whine that the tennis team had become so accustomed to hearing in the locker room, naturally--Mukahi might have been a twit, sometimes, but Oshitari had been rather surprised, in the beginning, to find that his roommate was quite the amusing twit. Oshitari thought--observed--that Gakuto knew how to seduce, and when simply to ask. He had done it a thousand times before, after all.
They had chosen to live together for mere expediency--Oshitari had known that Mukahi Gakuto had been accepted into Hyotei on the strength of his gymnastic ability, and yet Gakuto had inexplicably joined the tennis club, instead. It had fascinated him, this contrast--contrasts always did. (Like the way the hair against Gakuto's cheek did not move, now, not when sweat had darkened it to blood--not like the way it swished lightly over his shoulders when they played, together--tennis, only that.)
Study was not Oshitari's way, though calculation was, and it had amused him that even when they had been freshmen together, the brash, sweetly tasty young creature that was Mukahi had been as much of a show-off as the tennis prodigy Atobe Keigo. They had been mere acquaintances, then. And because he had been fascinated, it had been no trouble at all--because little indeed annoyed Oshitari, and few people found Mukahi anything but annoying--to ask the boy if he wanted to be roommates for their second year. Neither wanted to live with a stranger, and both wanted one of the deluxe double-room suites available in Hyotei's more expensive dorm buildings. It had been a convenient arrangement.
He had hoped for more than a simple... convenience, so to speak--expected it, to be certain. Oshitari knew what he looked like when the closet door opened and the mirror gave him back his face, his hair falling in a dark, finger-touched tumble. He knew that the glasses were not a detractor when one could see the slow smile in his dark eyes underneath them, and he knew he had made boys and girls alike shiver when he spoke, low and soft, his Kansai accent the quietest twang, ookini, matto ite kurehen ka? It was not mere conceit, after all, that had him brushing back the hair from a boy's face, a girl's shoulders, when he slid into them--and it was not lack of appreciation that he saw in Gakuto's blue-violet eyes, hungrily watching him walk from their shared bathroom back to his bedroom with a towel slung low around his hips, held in place by one casual hand.
It had been natural that he expect Gakuto to come to him... because what Oshitari wanted always came to him, in the end.
The opportunity had always been there, after all. They shared a common room if not bedrooms, and meals, and occasionally classes. He had shared his bed before, with others--and Mukahi was not a one to have cared for the supposed chastity of a man that he wanted to have, in any case. He asked, he demanded, he cocked his head with wry eyes twinkling--and Oshitari could not truly imagine anyone in their right mind turning away the way that small mouth quirked in a cocky smile or a sullen pout, the way his skin dewed evenly with sweat when he was somersaulting on a tennis court, and the way Gakuto's hips swung, just a little, whenever he moved. With no strings, why would anyone ever have thought of turning away what his roommate offered to anyone who caught his fancy?
And yet Gakuto merely looked into him, and then turned away, to another boy's touch, another man's bed.
It shouldn't have mattered. No, it shouldn't have mattered, because Oshitari Yuushi's sin was not pride, and his sense of security was not so easily damaged as that.
And yet, Oshitari wasn't sure when, exactly, he had started caring.
He forced himself to watch, wondering at why he still stood there--wondering why he cared at all. It was no different from any other day, or any other man. It was just Gakuto--just his roommate, just being slammed up against the lockers by every thrust from one of their senpai. It was just Gakuto wincing, just a little, every time one of the locks ground into him low and hard on his slender back, too thin for such rough treatment, his lower lip swollen and crimson from being bitten.
Gakuto would not have stood for that, he'd thought. It would leave bruises. (It was leaving bruises, he could see that the edge was a rough, reddish hue that would fade into a violet uglier than those familiar eyes.) It would mark the fair skin that his roommate took such pride in, with his lotion sitting on the ledge of the sink, weapon against the dry bite of a winter that still lingered. He wouldn't have stood for that, not the prissy little princess who complained when there wasn't enough ice in his water or when the food was too hot when it got to the table, because he hated it when he burnt his tongue.
Gakuto would not have stood for that, and yet some senior who wasn't even a Regular was pounding him into the lockers with Mukahi's ironed schoolpants in a crumpled, plaid heap on the floor beside them, and his eyes pinched closed with something akin to pain, mouth open in something like a cry that never emerged. And a lock digging into his back hard enough that Oshitari could already see a bruise forming.
It was strange. It was so very strange that he could not think of analysis, and his mind was blank and empty as the courts, because he had heard his roommate's cries in the other room--an expensive dorm, indeed, but a dorm was what it was--and Gakuto always cried out with pleasure. Screamed, actually. Such that their neighbours had knocked, once and again, and Oshitari had taken great pleasure in going to the door wearing nothing but his boxers and glasses and a raised eyebrow, as if demanding why they had been disturbed so rudely. It had always... amused him, before.
And yet...
Oshitari was slowly starting to realise that Gakuto was never going to come to him, and that he was never truly going to understand why.
Gakuto's eyes fluttered open, face turning sideways towards the cold rush of air, perhaps--though Oshitari could see that the one drowned in him, the one whose every thrust left a tense beat moving down his roommate's slim frame, did not even notice.
There was no time to move when the ice had captured his pulse.
Their eyes met--Oshitari felt the contact from stained, bruised violets resonate down his body (ah, he still could shiver, could still feel colder than he had been) as he saw small, soft lips, crimson-swollen and kissable as peaches, move silently in something that could have, almost, perhaps, been his name.
But it wasn't.
Of course, it wasn't.
Oshitari turned, slowly, and walked away with a straight back, his breathing cool, easy. Halfway to the dorm they shared he took off his glasses, because they would not stay on the bridge of his nose when tears kept catching on the nosepiece as they slipped, no longer hot by the time they caught on the edge of the soft plastic rounds.
He would have a cold pack ready for Gakuto to put on that bruise when he got back.
*_*_*_*
God, he felt dirty.
It was so weird, really. He'd had a shower, after he'd kicked that bastard Hiroe out of the locker room. The smell of sex and sweat was only fun when you were right in the middle of it, because otherwise it just got kind of ick. And now, he smelled oh-so-good, because he always kept a bottle of his very favourite strawberry shampoo, and the conditioner that went with it, in his locker--he had his own, already, and so did...
It didn't matter, did it?
He'd never been fucked against a locker before Hiroe'd just picked him up, that first time--big guy, Hiroe, and Gakuto didn't normally go for that kind, because he hated it when someone lay on his chest and he couldn't breathe. The locker thing hadn't been nearly as much fun as he'd thought it would be. He didn't know why he kept doing it. It... hurt.
Mukahi Gakuto frowned, and scuffed his shoe into the clay, looking over his shoulder. He couldn't see the bruises through his Jean Paul Gaultier shirt--but it was hard to admire the fine grain of the cloth when he could feel the ache underneath it, not just one place, and the last time he'd looked there had been the makings of a bruise almost the size of his fist just under the little curve of his waist, on his back. It wasn't the first one, either.
Fucking Hiroe.
Hard to say why he'd let Hiroe fuck him a couple of times, really. Hard to say why he'd let him do it once, at all, actually--sure, everyone thought Hiroe was hot stuff, but he wasn't really Gakuto's type (well, okay, he didn't really know what his 'type' was, but whatever it was, he was pretty sure that it wasn't Hiroe) and frankly, the chances of the guy making Regular any time this year, before he graduated, were looking really, really slim. Plus he was actually kind of bad in bed. Not bad, bad, but it'd gotten so kissing him was definitely not anything even like fun, and every time Hiroe wanted to try and shove his tongue down Gakuto's throat, Gakuto just sort of stuck his face somewhere else. And if he forced the issue, well, Gakuto bit him. Tongues just didn't belong where they weren't welcome.
That was easy. Sex always was.
Except... it just wasn't fun, anymore.
Hadn't been for, well, awhile.
Gakuto just didn't like thinking about exactly why he did things, sometimes. It was simpler to think that he liked sex--oh, hell, yeah, the harder he could get it, the better. He wouldn't break--he wasn't fragile like that, and anyone who had him in bed knew it.
That had been, well, real, once.
Today... today he'd felt for the first time like he would break, and maybe it didn't have anything to do with the way that damned lock had dug into his back, or maybe it did.
But pain wasn't fun. Sure, some people liked it, he knew, but--what the Hell, let the freaks be freaks, and leave him and his happy, fuckable little ass alone. He'd always thought that.
So why was he was walking around the tennis courts, hours after everyone else had left--his eyes were pretty damned good in the dark, he'd had lots of practice needing to use them in pitch-black--and he was pretty sure that it was past curfew? Like he ever cared about curfew. But whatever, none of that explained why he'd been walking back and forth, wanting to kick something, wanting to bite down on his lip until it bled, except it was already kind of sore where that asshole Hiroe had bitten him already. Friggin' bad kisser, Hiroe.
None of this explained why he just... didn't want to go home.
And why he couldn't get Yuushi's face out of his mind.
No! What the Hell--it wasn't like Yuushi'd never seen him in the middle of a good, hard fuck before. It was what he liked about Oshitari--sure, the guy was hot enough, even with those glasses, to have brought home more than a few girls, and Gakuto was pretty sure there'd been a guy, at least once, but, well, Oshitari didn't judge like that. Hell, Gakuto was pretty sure the reason the neighbours never bothered them anymore when it felt so damned good he just had to scream it out--and hadn't it been awhile since that'd happened, too?--was that Oshitari, brain that he was, had figured out some way to scare them off, an' they'd both found it all pretty damned funny the next morning.
Nothing bugged Oshitari Yuushi. Ever. So the sight of his roommate being slammed up against the clubroom lockers hadn't even made him blink, and he'd just stood there for a second--Gakuto was willing to bet it'd just been a second--before he'd just turned and walked away. Hadn't said anything. Normal.
Still, he could've at least looked... shocked, or something.
He could've...could've stopped Hiroe, maybe.
What the Hell. That would've been weird. And Gakuto would have killed him. Not that Hiroe was all that great a fuck, but still, whatever.
But...
But. Gakuto could see how Oshitari looked at him, and damned if that heat just behind all the frost and those glasses didn't make him shiver, sometimes. Maybe it was that smile, just the littlest tick up the corner of Oshitari Yuushi's mouth--or his big, graceful hands--or the way his Kansai accent made him sound like he purred whenever he was talking. He'd never found the Kansai accent sexy before--it was kind of girly, he'd always thought--but nothing about Yuushi was girly, not the way he walked, not the way he looked, and, Gakuto was willing to bet, not the way he fucked. He didn't need to hear the people moaning and calling his roommate's name to know that Oshitari was damned good in bed--he could tell just from watching him move.
Made Gakuto glad, really, he was normally a net player--if he'd had to watch Oshitari in front of him, all the time, he'd never have been able to play. The way those muscles moved like silk under his skin, the way his body stretched and played through each motion, those tight hips he'd thought about having tucked between his spread legs with his heels against that taut ass as Oshitari fucked him silly--yeah, he'd dreamed about it so many times. So fucking many times. Hell, if sex was supposed to be easy, and simple, why had there been a time or two when he'd closed his eyes and when he'd opened them again, been surprised not to see his partner?
So why not, right? He knew Oshitari wanted him--who wouldn't want him? And Yuushi wouldn't say no--no, he wouldn't, he'd grab him and push him up against the wall, and...
No. Anyone. Anyone but his roommate.
He didn't like to think about it. Sex was easy. Sex was fun, and everyone who ever got Gakuto's ass knew that that was all it was. Girls were such a pain, in how they always wanted to talk about it, and wanted to know if you loved them--it was simpler with guys. They just wanted a piece of Gakuto's ass, and it was easy for Gakuto to walk away afterwards.
But no-one ever walked away from Oshitari Yuushi, did they.
Well, fuck Oshitari. It wasn't like the bastard cared, anyway. Those eyes never missed anything, he must've seen that Gakuto was getting slammed back against a padlock, and he hadn't even looked shocked or anything. He'd probably thought Gakuto had liked it. Fuck Oshitari, fuck Hiroe, and...
Gakuto shoved the key into the lock with vicious pleasure. It was late. Yuushi was probably asleep by now, or something--it was late, the obnoxious curfew bells were gonna be ringing any moment, and there wasn't any light filtreing out from the common room, but...
But the light was on in the kitchenette, and Gakuto frowned.
Well, that was weird. Wasn't like his roommate to forget to kill the lights, 'cause, well, Yuushi was responsible like that. And... what was that, stuck to the fridge door...?
There's a cold-pack ready for you in the freezer. Good night, Gakuto.
Gakuto stared at the little note, written on a scrap of notebook paper torn just right along the little perforated lines. Whenever he tried to pull out a sheet, it always ended up with just a little ragged bit at the very end.
He felt... it was so weird, how his hands were shaking when he reached for the freezer door, but... but there was one of those ice packs, one of the ones with the blue gel stuff inside, that Oshitari didn't keep in the freezer, unless they were going to be used, because it ruined the gel to have it frozen all the time. And someone had wrapped it in a towel and tied it just at the end in a neat little knot--because Yuushi always said that it wasn't a good thing to put something frozen directly on a hurt, it shocked it, or something like that, though it was so weird to think that a hurt could be 'shocked.'
Yuushi... never missed anything.
It didn't explain why Gakuto's hands clutched, open and closed on the cold-pack as he sat down on his bed and pulled off his shirt with one hand, one tug over his head, and looked down at the bruise--no, the bruises, big ugly patches--on his back for a long, long time before he reached around himself and held the towel-wrapped cold pack to the new one just above his hip. It didn't explain anything at all about why he hadn't slapped the rat-bastard Hiroe silly, and walked out of there the first time he'd slammed him into a locker, a couple of days ago. It didn't explain why he was still letting Hiroe fuck him when it just wasn't much fun anymore.
But if he went to Oshitari's bed, it'd be fun. He knew that. Oh, Hell, yeah, he knew that.
But he'd never go.
Because, maybe, if he ever went to Oshitari's bed, he wouldn't be able to walk away. He wouldn't want to.
And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have anything to do with Oshitari at all.
*_*_*_*
Tsuzuku (to be continued) <--and how long HAS it been since I wrote that, I wonder...? ^^