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It’s awful in the aftermath. The taunts and jeers are still ringing in his head, but nothing compares to the way Wataru had smiled, blissful and beatific as any saint, like it hadn’t even mattered. His heart is still pounding in his chest when he gets offstage. Buchou had stayed behind. He was still helping Tenshouin to his feet. That guy had collapsed onstage or something, and it’s important to help the sick and those who are weak, but that guy has some things coming to him.
He rips off his mask as soon as the final curtain falls and tosses it to the ground. He’s sweating in his costume, courtesy of the stage lights beating down. A stagehand says something to him, but he ignores it, ignores it. His heart is beating too fast. He can hear the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
He finds himself outside the theater club door, hesitating on the threshold, palm against the wood. This room is so familiar, but now it feels tainted. He pushes his way inside and is immediately enveloped by the odd, persistent darkness and heavily hanging curtains that used to feel welcoming.
Wataru is already inside, already mostly through the motion of straightening by the time Hokuto spots him, leaving Hokuto no idea what he was doing just seconds before. Hokuto still blinks his eyes a few times in rapid succession, waiting for the illusion to dissipate. Well, it’s not like it’s that odd. Sure, he’d left Wataru behind him on the stage, but he’s long past being surprised at anything buchou does.
“Ah,” he says when he sees Hokuto come in. Maybe that’s a sign. Usually there’s more fanfare. Not of Hokuto, obviously, but of the simple fact of Wataru’s presence. He does so love making a scene.
“Why did you do that?” Hokuto asks.
“Do what?”
“Don’t play dumb. That, on stage. You let everyone hate you and laugh at you.”
“Hokuto-kun, it was in the script.”
And Wataru can do this, can act like it was nothing and no big deal, but Hokuto can see the red welt blooming on his cheek, the space underneath his makeup where a rock had hit because he hadn’t actually been able to dodge all of them. His once-pristine uniform is caked with things that look fished out of the cafeteria garbage can, and he smells appalling.
He looks bored, like he’s bored with Hokuto and everything he’s saying, tired of explaining things to a five-year-old, but Hokuto swears he can see the lie. There’s something tired and pinched in the set of Wataru’s lips. Hokuto knows what they look like from spending every day after school sitting across from them. He can tell it bothers Wataru too—
Or maybe it’s just his own imagination.
“Hokuto-kun, you’re very close to me,” Wataru says, and for a second, Hokuto feels a warm flush of pride.
But of course Wataru means that Hokuto is physically close to him, which he is. Somehow during this conversation he’d put himself directly in Wataru’s space. Hokuto only has to tilt his head the barest bit up to look into Wataru’s eyes, and Wataru’s back is flat against the wall. He looks down at Hokuto with a tilted head, eyes dark and reflecting no light without the stage lights shining on them, beady and uncanny like one of his birds.
He’s so mad, and hurt, and so many other feelings, all of them dark and all of them terrible, roiling around inside of him. He wants to hit something? He does and he doesn’t want to hit buchou. He’d never want to hurt him. He splits the difference and mashes their mouths together instead. It isn’t hard enough to taste blood, but it’s enough to knock Wataru back a step, thunking his head solidly into the wall. Hokuto twists his hands in the folds of Wataru’s costume, licking helplessly at his mouth like a dog, pressing closer until there’s no air between them, like he could eat him up if he only tried hard enough.
Wataru just lets him for a moment, and that’s maddening on its own, too. Hokuto kisses him as hard as he can, and Wataru accepts it, as pliant and passive as a doll. His lips could belong to something not living for all the spark he shows. It makes hot tears prick at the corner of Hokuto’s eyes, the emotion spilling over in him at this one last indignity.
He’s about to pull back— I’m literally kissing you, and you don’t even care— when finally, finally Wataru takes pity on him. He comes to life like a princess under a curse, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Hokuto’s head, positioning Hokuto just so, tilting his chin like he’s blocking one of his stage plays. Wataru kisses him back with all the finesse that Hokuto had lacked, coaxing his way into Hokuto’s mouth with warm, wet licks of his tongue, kissing him just as deeply, just as passionately, but with none of the clumsiness that Hokuto had shown.
It’s a weird and jarring experience. He never thought he’d be kissing his theater club president. He’d never even wanted to. He’s surprised at himself, still trying to work out the whys, where to put his hands and his feet, when Wataru pulls back, more of the familiar spark in his eye (or are those just the lights overhead?)
“Oh my. Were you planning to seduce me? Is this my farewell present?”
“No,” Hokuto says.
“No?” Wataru actually sounds a little put out.
“I wasn’t planning anything. I just. You just.”
“Use your words,” Wataru says in a perfect kindergartener voice—not the kindergarten teacher, the kindergartener. “Take your time.”
“I’m upset,” Hokuto says, even knowing that piece of vulnerability is doomed to be trampled on. “And you’re not. But you should be.”
“If you’re trying to upset me,” Wataru drawls, “Kissing me backstage isn’t the best way to go about it. I’ve been doing theater since I was five.”
“That’s not even true.”
“Are you sure?”
“Literally nothing you say is true. You’re the worst.”
He starts crying again, and he’s frustrated at himself for it, swiping tears off his cheeks with brisk hands. Wataru imitates him, iridescent tears streaking down his own cheeks, cutting lines through his stage makeup that doesn’t even have the decency to be garish up close.
“A farewell present means I’m going anywhere, and I’m not,” Hokuto says stubbornly, wet cheeks and all.
“Oh,” Wataru says softly, and maybe there’s a little genuine tenderness in it. Or maybe Wataru is a liar.
He kisses Hokuto again, and Hokuto lets him, wandering hands and sure fingers. They tuck themselves under the hem of Hokuto’s costume, between the seams. Hokuto never wanted this, but he can let himself want it. Wataru feels so real up close. Hokuto can taste the warm breath in his mouth, touch the slick of sweat beneath his waistcoat. He smells like greasepaint and feathers. Hokuto stuffs all these small truths inside himself, all the things Wataru can’t fake. He gathers them like seashells and holds them up to his ears.
Wataru’s fingers do a good impression of desperate as they pluck at Hokuto’s clothes, the both of them working in tandem to unlace stays, unhook latches, undo buttons and zippers and work themselves free from layers of suffocating, heavy fabric, all of it pooling in masses of satin and brocade on the floor. They suck and bite at each other’s mouths. Hokuto’s never had someone who wasn’t a family member touch him under his clothes, and he hisses when Wataru runs a pale hand over his chest, stopping to pinch his nipple, rubbing and pulling until it peaks, a sharp ache of sensation jolting from the sensitive pink bud to his crotch.
“S-stop that,” Hokuto says, trying to swat his hand away.
Wataru emphatically does not stop that, face taking on a triumphant grin as he tweaks Hokuto’s nipple again to the sound of a loud, mortifying groan from Hokuto himself. He’s achingly hard in his costume pants now, and he feels himself leak at the maddening sensation.
Wataru takes his moment of inattention to tip him back onto the couch. He’d walked them over to its shabby, velvety red bulk while Hokuto had been too distracted with kissing. This dinosaur had been here long before either of them and would be here long after, and there’s a moment of freefall where Hokuto isn’t sure he’s going to land somewhere safe before his back connects with the cushion.
Wataru climbs on top of him, placing a knee between both of Hokuto’s and pressing him down toward the seat cushions, hands going back to his nipples like a child with a new toy eager to break it.
“Ah, stop! Why are you such a pervert?”
Wataru tilts his head, and it shouldn’t be so attractive, the way his hair spills over his shoulder like a moonlit waterfall, its ends tickling Hokuto’s sides while Wataru mercilessly makes him ache. “It’s sex, Hokuto-kun. Perversion is kind of the point, no?”
Hokuto wouldn’t know. He’s never done this before, but then Wataru knows that. Hokuto doesn’t think it can be anything but obvious, especially with the way he’s falling apart, twisting and flushing and panting from such little attention.
“Touch me properly,” Hokuto huffs, and Wataru chuckles, low and smooth and dark like honey.
“Isn’t that what I’m doing? Relax. A good actor knows how to take direction.”
Hokuto glares up at him balefully. It’s charming, really, such a hateful expression on a face flushed cherry-red; Hokuto did always did have the looks of a leading man. “You always tell me I’m a terrible actor.”
“And you’ve never once believed me!”
He pinches Hokuto’s nipples once more for good measure because it’s such a joy to see him flinch.
He trails a hand down the concave hollow of Hokuto’s belly, raising goosebumps in his wake and watching Hokuto’s face closely for the slightest tells—a hitch of breath, labored inhalations.
“How do you want me to touch you, hm?”
Hokuto’s brow furrows. “I thought you were the director.”
“Yes, but—” He breathes out and shakes his head, his hand pausing in its creeping exploration. “You’re hopeless, honestly.”
Hokuto is about to ask what buchou means by that—if there’s something Hokuto ought to be doing differently or some key mistake he’s made—when Wataru leans down further and kisses the question out of his mouth. Whatever ‘hopeless’ means, it’s obviously not an impediment to this.
Hokuto wraps his arms eagerly around Wataru because he has the impression that he ought to be an active participant. Wataru is still on his hands and knees, bending his head low, the better to kiss Hokuto’s mouth, but it’s not enough contact. Hokuto wants to feel Wataru everywhere. He slides his hands down warm skin to grab Wataru’s ass through his pants, applying pressure as if he could drag Wataru any closer.
“You’re pushy,” Wataru pronounces, but he has to stop kissing Hokuto to do it. He slides a hand down between them and squeezes Hokuto’s cock.
Hokuto moans and pushes up into his palm, which immediately retreats.
Frustrating. Everything about Wataru is frustrating.
“Oh,” Hokuto says, brows drawing together. “Should I be touching your penis as well?”
Wataru winces, the record-scratch to a well-choreographed seduction. Well, all the greats know how to improvise. “Why don’t you just let me take care of it?”
His hand comes back for incentive to Hokuto’s nod, rubbing him through the cloth while Wataru drinks him in, one half of his brain thinking through how he’d light this scene—bring Hokuto’s chin down a little, turn his head a little to the side. His face is a little too… vacant for a good bedroom scene, but his eyes have the good flinty blue of topaz.
The pants have to go, though. Wataru takes them off him, biting softly at Hokuto’s neck, his collarbone, his shoulder—nothing that will leave marks but just enough to bring a stain of pink to the surface. He tosses the pants behind them theatrically, ignores the powdery thump they make when they hit the floor.
Hokuto looks a little consternated, brows drawing down while he sucks air in, when Wataru casually wrenches his legs apart, fitting himself between them and licking his fingers to drag them down across the seam of Hokuto’s ass, tapping Morse code against his puckered rim.
Hokuto scrambles back, levering himself up onto his elbows to stare down at Wataru poised between his legs, wearing nothing but a cocked brow and when, exactly, had Wataru gotten rid of the rest of his clothes?
“We’re going to do it that way?”
“If you have any objections, I’m all ears.”
“Don’t—don’t do that thing with your ears right now, it’s distracting.”
Wataru pouts and pointedly does not return his ears to their correct size. “There are so many rules. Has anyone ever told you that you’re not very much fun?”
“Yes.”
Hokuto hasn’t actually told him to stop, so Wataru keeps circling his damp finger around Hokuto’s hole. The longer he does it, the more the blush on Hokuto’s chest spreads and the more his thighs quiver around Wataru’s shoulders. Even his scolding, serious face starts to soften.
This would be easier if Wataru could just get his mouth on him, but knowing Hokuto, Wataru wouldn’t even get a good undignified squawk out of him—he’d probably just kick Wataru and then lecture him on the diseases a person can get from putting their mouth on dirty things. Even he has to fight the common teenage urge to roll his eyes.
“I suppose you are my senior, but still, it doesn’t seem right for you to just decide things like that on your own.”
“Mmhm,” Wataru says, barely paying attention as he fishes the lube he knows is there out from between the couch cushions. He uses sleight of hand to pour some on his fingers and throws his voice to imitate Tomoya, Hello, is anybody there? Why is the door locked?
The faux knocking and sound of a doorknob rattling from the theater room entrance is truly inspired, if he says so himself.
“Tomoya?”
Hokuto starts to twist, gaze snapping toward the curtain-lined hallway that leads to the door. Wataru takes the opportunity to slide one slick finger into Hokuto’s body, ignoring the resulting kick that, yes, was definitely aimed at his head.
“Arghhh!” Hokuto makes a garbled sound, his back arching off the couch.
Wataru lets him get used to it, petting the inside of him gently.
Hokuto glares at him. “What is wrong with you?”
“Depends who you ask.”
He moves his finger gently, pulling it out just to slide it back in, fucking Hokuto with gentle rocking motions.
“You can’t just… do that without asking.”
It’s cute, really, Hokuto trying to scold him. His eyelids flutter as Wataru finds the exact right spot—he is good at this—and starts massaging it in earnest. Hokuto moans and spreads his legs a little wider, and Wataru grins like the cat who ate the canary, bright tufts of feathers still sticking out of his mouth.
“My deepest apologies,” Wataru says in his least sincere voice, pressing hard at that little bundle of nerves that makes Hokuto pant, his cock weeping gently against his belly now. “I can stop if you like?”
“Don’t stop,” Hokuto says, squeezing his eyes shut. He makes a noise that sounds confused. “Keep going.”
Wataru slides another finger into him before he’s even stopped speaking. It feels—weird. Hokuto knows that people do this, in theory, but his body’s nerves are going strange, telling him that things aren’t supposed to go in there. He feels hot and cold all over and can’t decide if he likes the feeling or not. It feels like being pried open like a grape, aching and tender, and he can’t help staring down at where Wataru’s wrist is disappearing between his legs, clever, quick fingers doing things that Hokuto can’t see but can certainly feel.
He brings his own hands to his chest, blushing fiercely, and tries to do what Wataru had done, playing with his own nipples to see if that makes it better. It makes it feel urgent. Like something is building inside him. Hokuto has masturbated before. He knows what an orgasm feels like, what it feels like to want to come, but this is different. He wants more of that stretching, raw feeling that pushes up against the edges of sickness and pain.
Wataru’s gaze goes sharp as it tracks the movement of Hokuto’s hands, keen eyes watching as Hokuto plays with himself. He does something else the next time he drags his fingers out of Hokuto’s ass, an intense widening sensation that hurts as much as it feels good.
Hokuto is starting to sweat into the musty couch, writhing against it and smudging his own stage makeup against its seatback. He wants to bite at the cushions. He twists, pinching his nipples especially hard and making himself gasp, pinprick tears springing to his eyes at all of the hot, bright sensations.
“Buchou,” he says, broken and pleading.
Maybe Wataru takes pity on him. Maybe he likes what he sees, wants Hokuto as badly as Hokuto wants him, feels some kind of connection in this moment, a jolt of shared human vulnerability—or maybe he feels nothing of the sort. Maybe he’s just bored and this is more entertaining than keeping to his club room of ghosts.
What better way to find an audience than to insinuate yourself inside their body?
“Alright,” Wataru says, voice compassionate and soft.
He curls his nimble fingers around Hokuto’s length, stroking him—distracting him—while he coats his own cock with lube and shuffles forward on his knees.
It’s a terrible angle. Hokuto is somehow all knees.
“Oh,” he breathes when Wataru starts to shove in, too big and hard, pushing all the air out of Hokuto’s lungs. He digs his fingers into the couch until he hears something rip. “That hurts.”
He braces his feet against the couch, pushing back with his legs. Somehow it keeps going, Wataru sinking into him more and more.
Wataru does something with his hand, squeezing Hokuto’s dick a little tighter, rubbing his thumb around the sensitive crown. “Lots of things do, Hokuto-kun. Don’t you know that by now?”
It feels almost like he’s won something when Wataru is finally seated all the way inside. Their hips are pushed flush together. Soft pubic hair crinkles against him. Wataru feels so close. In this instant he can’t get away. Hokuto could wrap his arms around him if he wanted.
Does he look a little sad, or is that just a trick of the light?
Whatever it is is erased between one moment and the next. That’s the thing about stage shows; they never last. Wataru pulls out, and the slick burn is tempered by the pleasure of being touched. He slides back in, and the old couch creaks.
It squeaks below them, the orchestra pit to their private performance. He doesn’t even know if any of the sounds Wataru makes are real. It’s such an elegant facsimile. He can’t help moaning when Wataru fucks him, and that’s just one more difference between them, isn’t it? He truly is not a very good actor.
He digs his nails into Wataru’s back, and Wataru pins his hands above his head so as not to damage the merchandise.
“Look at me,” Wataru whispers when he comes, sotto voce and pitched to carry, one hand clamped tight around Hokuto’s jaw like Hokuto could look anywhere else.
It’s odd in the aftermath. Hokuto feels bitter at his own naivete, for expecting anything different. The air conditioning of the club room prickles unwanted goosebumps on his skin, all of his sweat making him feel cold and clammy. Jizz trickles down his thigh when he stands, creeping a ticklish, disgusting trail downward and making him squirm.
Wataru has taken up the entire couch in his absence, flowing across it like ink, matter filling a vacuum, erasing all the negative space. He swoons with his arm over his eyes like a heroine in a silent film. He acts like Hokuto isn’t even there.
Hokuto stands there, hands clenching at his sides, working up the nerve to say something.
“Hmm?” Wataru says, finally dragging his hand from his face to do a double-take at Hokuto, violet eyes wide in feigned surprise when all of Hokuto’s huffing grows tiresome. Like they aren’t still naked. Like Wataru hadn’t just been inside him. “You’re still here? You can show yourself out, can’t you?”
Hokuto sputters. “You. You—”
Wataru waves tiredly at him. Yes, yes, me.
Hokuto can show himself out. He does, sore between his legs with sweat cooling beneath his ordinary clothes. He grits his teeth, and the door to the theater room slams in his face, remote and forbidding. He feels dirty and used and sadder than when he started.
There’s a spark of anger, too, a smoldering coal that lodges in his throat and makes it bob heavily. He’ll eventually nurse it into the flame of a revolution, but that’s for another day far, far ahead. When he feels less like choking on it.
He doesn’t know why he came here. He shouldn’t have bothered.