Work Text:
It begins like this: Kazuma cannot find his favoured fountain pen.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t matter. He’s not one to put stock into theories of lucky charms. The work is the work, his hand is his hand, and at the end of the day the pen he wields is, well, a pen. But then he’s not one week past finding out his father was shot as part of an intergovernmental conspiracy and, oh, turns out his father had murdered his mentor’s elder brother and, right, said mentor (who he’d been set on seeing hang only days ago) has now fucked off to his Bedfordshire estate and left him swamped with work he will absolutely not be sending a telegram to beg for assistance with.
And suddenly this pen—its nib width just right, its glide effortless, the most comfortable he owns—is absolutely instrumental to so much as consider his to-do list. Perhaps most damningly, he’s already turned over too much of the office to quit now.
He’s jostling the shelf for a clue. In response, a clatter and a plume of something that scents the air so heady it makes him sneeze. On the ground is a tipped box, a cracked vial, and a note serving no answers but, instead, the pounding headache of a thought before everything nosedives to shit: why couldn’t you let go of the fucking pen?
The note is addressed to a “My Dear Friend Barok” from one “AH”, which in any other case would be a horror in itself. Here, it’s only the beginning.
The most recent prototype for a cure for impotence. Not to find itself in another’s hands under any circumstances in its current state. Though, at least the rats weren’t offing themselves this time around.
Either union of the flesh, or, quite literally, become sick with lust. Anywhere for a day to a week if left untreated.
At first, it’s hardly noticeable. A sensation he’s almost forgotten after these dreary months spent in London—that prickling of the skin during a day in high summer, cautioning of sunburn to come. Placebo, even, after reading that sick joke of a note, comes the laughing thought.
Except, now it’s not even half-one on a Thursday, Kazuma has correspondence to answer, a chronology to gather, three briefs from Scotland Yard to assess and a precedent on necessity to dig up from the judgment collections. And it’s a wonder he can even think that far when his body appears to be staging a revolt against him. This morning he’d walked into the office with the collar of his coat turned stiffly up against the cold. Now, it’s so hot that his clothing feels like it’s scalding him. He’d checked his hands, thinking his body might have turned inside out, the way every inch of fabric started chafing at his nerves.
Earlier, he’d managed to poke his head out the door far enough to bark at Mr Wakefield to cancel all his appointments for the day. And when the clerk’s features had assumed a fuming look at the tone Kazuma took, such bossiness with no formal rank to lord over him, Kazuma had felt the what-if pulse electric through his body—what if he were to cross the floor and sink to his knees for the really quite ordinary and presumably not of Kazuma’s sort Mr Wakefield to position as the man’s suddenly very powerful-looking hands felt fit? Fixated on Mr Wakefield’s glower, the heavy shadow of his brow, he’d gulped...thought of gulping something else…then added the strangled command to make sure no one under any circumstances entered Lord van Zieks’ office. Kazuma had slammed the door safely shut on himself then, scrubbing his fingers down his face, driven half-mad the way his own touch had him imagining pressing his cheek to the front of Mr Wakefield’s trousers, mouthing wetly at the fabric to chase the scent of him. Scrabbling to undo the choking line of his cravat, only to shove the blasted thing in his mouth when the rasp of the cloth against his neck made him cry out…and the realisation had settled over him, short of his skin, slotted with light, damning as an iron grate.
His body would torture him, until it would not. And there was nothing else for it, but to shiver and ache and endure, as always, until…until…just the indeterminate stretch of the thought itself—until—
But the thing is, something true and exact to count on, the lion’s share of his years have been an exercise in discipline. However misguided his thoughts, however wayward his heart, however restraint or stubbornness has fucked him in the end, Kazuma knows how to grit his teeth where his tongue might derail him in the moment.
If nothing else, has he not built his faith in himself stone by silent stone up mountains? Measured his breath per footfall on morning runs? Each finger closed around the hilt of his katana when even the blood becomes too heavy for his arm. Not a blink too long when it’s time to study, not a page more when it’s time to sleep.
Discomfort—everything for a moment, as any test is everything. Surmountable, it always has to be, or he wouldn’t be here.
So the door stays shut. The clothes come off, a labour worth it for the moment of relief when his skin is finally free, until the air, too, starts to crawl all over him. The feverish river of shadow where the portrait of Klimt van Zieks used to hang is dismissed with a shake of the head, a blink to readjust the eyes. The cloak is laid inside out over the divan, so as not to soil the upholstery when Kazuma sprawls his limbs upon it. He’s covered in sweat, a slippery thing, as he trails his hands down his torso to take himself in hand. No shame in this, only doing what must be done to hush the wanting tremor of his body so that he can get back to work. And for the sake of efficiency, he’s calling for the edge of pain that makes his silence a greater feat and a greater comfort for it—if he’s doing this then it’s not Mr Wakefield he’s thinking of, no. Inevitably, helplessly, it’s Naruhodou. Those nights, not so long ago, only a life or two away, when they’d fooled around only for the vigour of their youth, for their maleness, for the simple fact it felt good. Most crucial, that they’d been so skilled at affecting such casualness about it that maybe they’d have nothing to lose. Naruhodou in him, over him, the laughing breath at his nape, the urgent grunt when Kazuma played him well enough to get him to lose that sweet shyness about him, when unravelling Kazuma became a puzzle to turn his single-minded focus to.
All those times—how badly he wanted to roll over so he could watch Naruhodou’s face, how at the barest hint of Naruhodou wanting the same he’d shift to press his face safely into the futon. Knowing that Naruhodou would drape over him, languorous as a breeze settling to cloth, a brand over the line of Kazuma’s back. The desire to see each other never forgotten by Kazuma, only denied. For the comfort of having something to keep, to dig his nails into. The hurt of it a sweetness, a harbour when Naruhodou would hold him, his hand splayed warm below Kazuma’s ribs, steady against each shudder of his stomach when Naruhodou would find that spot inside of him and grind, relentless, babbling in Kazuma’s ear about how good he felt, how close he was, honest as a flood.
And now, tugging at himself is getting Kazuma nowhere for how easy it is. Too much and not enough. He turns onto his stomach and presses his hips down, slow and shaky. Melting drunk into the discipline of each lonely rut of his cock against the fabric of his cloak, speeding up only when the air on his back makes his eyes burn. When his pulse gets louder in his ears, when the fever could be cresting or it could be swallowing him whole, when the images of Naruhodou start to fragment—less distinct, more a haunting of touch—when he’s rubbed himself so fierce that he just might be able to trick himself by sucking two fingers messily down to the root, reaching behind to press inside of himself and calling upon the memory of being filled—arching back with it, ready to cry with it—when his face brushes against the cravat, red as the sun, crushed, held against his tongue—
When he’s sliding deeper into himself, fumbling for that spot, holding and holding, and when he’s still not coming, cheeks wet with spit and tears both…that’s when the door swings open and slams shut behind none other than Naruhodou Ryuunosuke.
So, this might be hell.
“Asougi?!” Not a spectre, no, not with that sputter, not with how his hands shoot up to shield his eyes, or maybe Kazuma’s propriety. “What on earth are you—”
“Go,” Kazuma manages to grit out. A threadbare rasp of his ordinary voice. At the sound, Naruhodou lowers his hands. And it’s agony, Kazuma snatching his touch away from himself, scrabbling to cover himself with the cloak, then looking right into Naruhodou’s eyes to leave no room for argument.
The blush has stolen all the way to Naruhodou’s hairline. “Yes, well, I can see that you’re, um, busy. So—so sorry about, y’know. Yes, yep, uh—” Except, when has Naruhodou ever done as Kazuma expected? The one thing he’s always expected of the man, if anything. “Going,” Naruhodou breathes, even as he takes a step forward, like he doesn’t quite realise he’s moving closer.
“Are you really….I mean, here? During work hours? Er, Mr Wakefield sent urgent word this morning that you’d shut yourself in Lord van Zieks’ chambers and wouldn’t stop cursing, presumably, in Japanese. He left to take his lunch when I arrived. He was worried you might’ve been wounded, thought I might be able to assist, on account of us both being—” Naruhodou gestures between them to finish, hand hovering in the space over his chest. He’s overexplaining, eyes shifting, that familiar nervous cadence of his, as if he’s in the position that warrants it right now.
“I knocked, by the way. Just so you know.”
Kazuma scoffs. And it’s a relief that he has his wits about him well enough to shake his head, bristling at the revelation that Mr Wakefield has not only ignored his instructions but left when there’s no other clerk on duty, no doubt out of spite than any real concern for Kazuma. Or perhaps worse, he does care and thinks Kazuma needs a Nipponese handler.
“Wonderful, thank you. You can leave now.” How had he forgotten to lock the door?
Naruhodou does not leave. His brows are pinched, like he’s looking at a deformed beetle. “You really took off all your clothes to do that, in the office? Asougi, that’s so…odd. If you really must, why not at least be quick about it?”
Kazuma could strangle him. He could. If, inexplicably, that look of judgment wasn’t rooting him to the spot, pooling heat in his gut. “Is this the time, Naruhodou?” All the more miserable, he’s practically whining the words.
Naruhodou laughs, disbelieving. “You’re asking me?”
“That’s not an answer.” Kazuma can feel it, the sting of sweat on his neck, a fresh shiver burning its way through him.
“Oh yes, an answer, just like you’re so good at giving, hm?”
Kazuma can’t keep his mouth from dropping, aghast. “Are you really trying to interrogate me on my state of undress right now? I should hope you’re not actually waiting around for a private show, Naruho—”
“You look awful,” Naruhodou says. And the breath seems to leave them both in a rush.
Closer again, by one, two, three more strides, purposeful now, the cold marble box of this office trapping whatever feeling might slip.
“I’m fine, I will be fine. If you could just turn and leave so I can continue what I’d been doing before you barged in!” A lie. He’d known, in the split second before the door swung open, there would be no relief alone. Sometimes, all there is is to throw things.
But Naruhodou, obstinate or fearless or plain stupid, definitely concerned and perhaps cruel, reaches out to lay the back of his hand to Kazuma’s forehead. The thread of a gasp taut between them.
“Asougi, you’re burning up.”
And he is. He is, he’s pressing into the touch, a sob wracked from his chest at how the ruin of Naruhodou’s hand can feel like such a relief. Reaching then, to tug at Naruhodou and truly, Kazuma's only intent is to suffocate under him. But then it lances. A needle of a thing—Kazuma's sense of reason. It’s enough. Panting with the effort, he manages to slap Naruhodou’s arm away from him instead.
I am asking you to leave, he wants to say. But it’s too dangerous now to open his mouth. Because Naruhodou is beautiful: the mess of his hair, the impression of his eyes still boyish and clear, though the year, or the sight of Kazuma in front of him, has imparted a severity to the set of his brows and a certain handsomeness with it. The broadness of his shoulders and hands, something resolute and upstanding about the angle of his thumbs—traits Kazuma had failed to remember quite so well, perhaps exactly for the way tracking over the lines of Naruhodou now muddles him right up, crosses his nerves, and devastates the faith he’s made in his solitude. The dizzy unravelling of memories from earlier, more sinuous now but even further away. Hands. The archer’s calluses. The press of Naruhodou’s fingers into the flesh of Kazuma’s back. Naruhodou is beautiful, and there’s nothing new about that.
What’s new is that Kazuma might beg.
Naruhodou’s gaze seems to have followed the motion of his arm, settling on the ground, before he stoops, picking something up, and shit, it’s the crumpled up note.
Numb, Kazuma watches him read through the words, the confused furrow of his brows as he glances at Kazuma, disbelieving. He watches Naruhodou read the note again.
“It’s…oh God, it’s not a joke. What on Earth?! You’re…you—just when I think the English can’t possibly be more insane!” Naruhodou’s laugh is downright undone, Kazuma’s chest constricts at the sound. “Asougi, it very clearly says ‘union of the flesh.’”
And well, despite it all, Kazuma can count on his temper to seal his desperation at least, however flimsy. “Yes, Naruhodou, I can read. It also says that the rats didn’t off themselves.”
“Don’t be a fool!”
Kazuma glares at him, the set of his gaze narrowing. He shifts, angry and impatient, all the more annoyed at the rough drag of his cloak against his skin as the makeshift cover of it slips to bare his shoulder, the distant warning ringing through his head at the sensation. And then comes the question, posed to Naruhodou, serrated: “So what do you say I do?”
The silence stretches long enough, the shadow of it playing over Naruhodou’s face, that Kazuma settles, miserable, into what appears to be his own victory. Naruhodou will leave. Kazuma could scream if it didn’t feel like the force would bowl him over. Mere days ago, Susato had told him they’d be travelling back to Japan at the end of this week. And it had stung, but only so far as Naruhodou had not said anything himself. So he’d penned the speech in his head for the docks, practised it last night and the night before, determined to thank Naruhodou properly before they had to part. He owed the man that much, the uncomfortable step forth. Once he was there, in front of him, good will and wearing his heart on his sleeve would come easy as it always did with Naruhodou. There was a neatness to it in his head, none of this corrosive want, not this prodding at Naruhodou to make him second guess himself—please, never that—all to save his own skin.
Except. Except—
“You could ask me for help.”
Kazuma balks. Naruhodou’s voice is small, his face inscrutable. That word, help, the most innocuous prick of a bite, rushing venom through Kazuma’s blood. “Help?” He spits. “You’re free to leave, Naruhodou. I’ve no need for charity.”
Except. Except his body is not a body but one shaking plea, and Naruhodou’s eyes are raking over him, the line of his throat shifting as he swallows.
Staring, Naruhodou is staring.
Kazuma yanks him by the tie so hard he stumbles, buckling as his shin hits the hard wooden edge of the frame of the divan, crying out as his hands bear down on the cushion, on either side of Kazuma’s hips, to keep himself upright.
He’s looming over Kazuma, smelling of soap, with what looks like a pastry crumb in the knot of his tie. And Kazuma feels the shadow of him like the most teasing touch, driving him mad enough to arch into nothing, whimpering pathetically at the empty space. Like a gale is arcing up over the level of his ears, he hears Naruhodou cursing, distant. And then there’s pure sensation coursing through Kazuma’s body, that wind before losing something. A strength, loose and warm, filling him in such a rush it’s almost a numbness. Dizzily, he tugs at Naruhodou, manoeuvring him sloppily so he’s seated on the divan.
Like it’s the last thing he’ll do, Kazuma sprawls himself over Naruhodou’s lap, the cloak falling away to pool onto the seat before he's rolling up against Naruhodou, finally, pressing so close that the buttons of Naruhodou’s waistcoat could bruise the tender skin of his stomach. So close he can sense the jackrabbiting pulse that makes his own heartbeat drum faster and louder, begging to be closer, for subsumption.
And the world draws tightly to them, becomes the endless second that their bodies go still.
But then Naruhodou exhales. His touch settles light on Kazuma’s flank. Eyes wide, and now he’s holding his breath, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. He looks about as ridiculous as Kazuma feels humiliated, ears flaring hot as he grunts, swatting at Naruhodou’s hand.
Kazuma lowers his gaze, hating the flutter of his own eyelashes, clawing against the sense of being something delicate—sinking all his weight down and angling himself onto the heavy muscle of Naruhodou’s thigh so he can grind, against all else. He’s relentless in the chase, the friction of the wool of Naruhodou’s pants punishing and divine against his naked cock. There’s no softness to test here. No underbelly; there’s nothing that has to scare them.
Naruhodou leans into him, one arm coming up to reach around. Three fingers press firmly at the base of Kazuma’s skull. Yes, he thinks. Shove me off, I dare you.
Only, lightness. The touch trails down the full length of his spinal cord, quiet as a shiver, heavy as the sense of being watched.
“Asougi,” Naruhodou says. It’s a rough whisper, like he wants to swallow the name but can’t. “Surely that doesn’t feel good?”
Kazuma huffs out a laugh, feels Naruhodou stiffen under him.
“I don’t think it’s particularly funny.”
“No.” And with that, Kazuma presses his hand to the front of Naruhodou’s trousers.
All yield—the way Naruhodou melts into him at the touch, how the heat of his breath fits itself to the skin of Kazuma’s neck like the light of a fire. But under Kazuma’s hand, Naruhodou is swelling, hard and heavy. Full with promise Kazuma remembers the burn of all too well.
“It’s not funny at all, is it?”
Naruhodou’s breath is drawing louder, his voice gone reedy. “Would it kill you to set your pride aside for a moment, after all that’s passed?”
Kazuma’s blood boils. Halting all movement, still and quiet as bone. “Damn you, Naruhodou.” And he lets the next words out, blow by blow to his own gut.
“Ask you for help? You’ll sit here then, will you? Servicing me, pausing to check your watch while I work it all out on your prick. Yes, so fucking generous, aren’t you?” The warning blur of tears in his eyes, angry and hot; he’s woefully hard and it’s taking everything in him to still the roll of his hips. “Tell me, am I really that monstrous to you?”
Naruhodou winces. “You know that’s not what I meant, Asougi.”
“No, I can’t say I do know!”
“All those times before. You know it was good for me, too.” Naruhodou exhales, shaky, scrubs his fingers through his hair. “And it doesn’t matter. I’d still want to help. So isn’t it cruel to make me admit it?”
“Of course it matters,” Kazuma hisses. “I’ve asked more of you than what’s fair already.”
“I don’t know how you managed to respect me so much and think me so foolish at the same time.” Naruhodou shakes his head. “No, it was never about fairness. You never asked. You’re a lawyer, I know you know what to make of omission.” A smile before Naruhodou lowers his voice to finish. “And then you died. And I’ve not been sure what to believe. But I’m here.”
And right, there it is. Incisive, portentous as a faultline in the earth. Kazuma swallows against the lump in his throat, looks the man he’s let on more to than any other in the eyes. The one he couldn’t tell, the only one he would have told. The one he’s always been terrified he couldn’t let go.
“And what would you have me ask?”
Naruhodou sighs. “Whatever’s honest, Asougi. I’ll do what I can, as I’d like. I gather you trusted me for the same.” And there has to be something, something he’s seeing in Kazuma’s face, because Naruhodou closes his hand around Kazuma’s fist, draws it up to open against his cheek, an offering of faith that Kazuma will tell the truth, the reprieve of summer rain. In spite of it all, tired as Naruhodou sounds. The proximity now, meant to be crossed.
Cross it Kazuma does, pushing his face into the crook of Naruhodou’s neck so he can tuck the question there. The honest one, the first of them at least. “Would you take these blasted clothes off?”
The blessing of Naruhodou’s startled laugh. “Anything else?”
“For fuck’s sake, Naruhodou, I want you. So touch me if you damned want to.”
“So much for asking.” But Naruhodou is laughing again, soft around the words, as he sets Kazuma’s hands to the line of buttons running down his waistcoat. He allows Kazuma to pull back, making space between them to watch, parched, as Naruhodou starts to tug at the knot of his tie.
Tie. Boots. Waistcoat. Braces. Shirt. The slight softness of Naruhodou’s belly, the subtle nip of his waist and the broad expanse of his torso. The pectoral muscles, firm under Kazuma’s cheek, and the dark nipples he fastens his mouth to, tongue drawing out like a magnet, then he’s full with the glow of pride at the pleased hum that escapes Naruhodou.
Most sentimental—Naruhodou’s arms, perfect and encompassing, winding around Kazuma to keep him in place, the sturdiness of him. Kazuma doesn’t know how to reckon with this, wanting Naruhodou everywhere, wanting all of him so much he could be swallowed, inchoate, by want itself. Just the two of them, something like water, time and space sluicing into touch.
He’s gasping as he speaks, so what’s meant to be sarcastic only comes out desperate. “Would you touch me, then? Will you? Is that better?”
Naruhodou sighs. “When have I not wanted to?” As much concession as reprimand.
And it’s answer enough when he grasps Kazuma’s waist, the warm pressure of his hands making Kazuma’s breath hitch. Just firm enough to lift Kazuma off his lap so that he can awkwardly work his trousers off, shimmying them down his thighs with his drawers, a dance Kazuma would laugh at if his mouth hadn’t run so dry at the sight. And then they’re both finally bare, the reveal punching a groan from Kazuma, sinking desperately back down onto Naruhodou’s lap.
Naruhodou’s cock might as well be thick as a trunk, curving slightly towards his belly, noble and imposing. And Kazuma needs Naruhodou every way he can get him. To get a hand on his prick, tease the skin past the head and see what more he can squeeze from the glistening tip, suck it down so deep he goes dizzy for lack of air, needs Naruhodou to split him open and fuck him senseless. And there’s a giddy sort of pride in the sight, the same as the first time he'd seen Naruhodou naked and all the times after—Naruhodou, unassuming Naruhodou, absolutely ruinous under it all.
Kazuma swallows thickly, shaking his head, staring. “So I didn’t doctor my memories. I really didn’t—God, Naruhodou, it’s a third leg, really. How on Earth do you even get this big?”
Naruhodou averts his eyes, smiling shyly at what he probably thinks is flattery but, really, Kazuma has wondered, Kazuma is wondering.
Until he’s not. Because he’s been on the brink all day, and Naruhodou, still with that sweet flush to his cheeks, is circling his hand around the two of them, his cock silken and rigid against Kazuma’s. A twin heat, pressed against each other so tightly, so that Kazuma no longer feels like he’s alone and burning alive in the cold. That all’s right, that it’s just them, that there’s new life in the fire.
Or, he might just be going even more mad. “God, want to suck you off. Want you inside, want—” His litany swallowed by a gasp when Naruhodou walks the fingers of his free hand up past Kazuma's rib, brushing over a nipple, pinching when he shudders—yes, the archer’s calluses and no, that grip, the feel of Naruhodou’s cock—he’s done for.
Naruhodou squeezes, a few lazy tugs and that’s all it takes. Kazuma—green as anything—rears his head back, keening, and spills all over them both.
And then, with something of a squawk, comes down to see that by the miracle of that demon spore, he’s still hard.
A pinch to his thigh then, that makes him bristle, makes him want to bite Naruhodou.
“Asougi, you need to be quiet!”
Kazuma does not bite Naruhodou. He jabs him in the chest, the rush of anger a temporary dip back to his senses, though his breath is still ragged. “I’m trying you donkey, I’m not particularly keen on being done in for buggery either, thanks!”
“O-oh, are we…I mean is that…is that on the cards?”
Kazuma looks pointedly down at their laps, the proud stand of their cocks covered in the mess he’s made, then drags his gaze back to Naruhodou, fixing him with what he is sure is a withering glare. “No, it looks like it’ll only be gross indecency if you don’t get to it.” The last words leave him on a hiss. “Now hurry up!”
Naruhodou snorts. Kazuma has the feeling he doesn’t realise he’s spoken out loud when he mutters, “ironic hearing you say that after your show just then” for how brazenly he proceeds to lay the back of his hand to Kazuma’s sweaty forehead, clicking his tongue fussily at what he finds. “Mm, your temperature’s much better now, at least.”
Then he presses the flat of his palms into Kazuma’s shoulders, angling him slightly in the direction of the armrest, with the gall to level him with a sunny smile. “Well, if we got caught, I’d defend us.”
But Naruhodou is leaving in a few days. And Kazuma is watching him, the knowledge likely written all over his face, and still, for all the prickly ire that flares at Naruhodou’s casualness, at that light touch, barely the suggestion of a push, he’s twisting around and falling like a ribbon to lie back against the divan. There’s nothing left to win. So what Kazuma does is, he looks up at Naruhodou. And he smiles back. And he still doesn’t say a word about the ocean.
He shakes his head, sighing. “You’re forgetting about the part where we’re actually guilty. So you’ll set that nose of yours on the truth like you’re so good at and chase us right into a jail cell.”
Of course they both know that the law could be of no help to men like them, it’s why there’s not much to lose in the bravado of a joke. But there’s tenderness, under the barb and abrading his chest, that he knows Naruhodou will seize.
It’s funny, Naruhodou had said to him once. Most would deal in backhanded compliments but you’re like the reverse. Sometimes I feel like when you’re telling me off, you’re really very happy with me.
Indeed, Naruhodou, to his credit and to the self-preservatory squeeze of Kazuma’s gut, doesn’t falter in this moment. The tremor in his laugh is beautiful in the way of things one knows a dream will never exactly replicate.
“It’s hardly my fault I’ve only ever had to put the prosecution to proof. I’m sure I could run a solid defence for us…and if that fails, well then it’d be good to have a sentencing hearing under my belt, wouldn’t it?”
And the brewing snark shudders out of Kazuma in an instant, because Naruhodou’s hand is running up the side of his leg, tracing down over the ridge of his hip bone, the barest hint of roughness from the tips of his fingers—where his nails have been trimmed so short, part fastidiousness and part the anxious biting habit. Kazuma’s heart clenches at the familiarity of it.
A solid defence. He does wonder, for all that hasn’t changed…is there still a version of them holding each other without the condition of Kazuma’s predicament? Or have their worlds been cleaved too messily, too spidered with cracks to move towards one another yet? But it’s a morbid curiosity, like poking at a bruise or bearing weight down on a swollen joint. And he doesn’t want to think about it, anyway. Not when Naruhodou, at that same airy pace, drifts over the ticklish width of his thigh, winding down ever so slightly—all it takes for Kazuma to sigh, drawing his knees up to his chest to make space for Naruhodou, exactly where he needs him.
He watches, rapt, as Naruhodou’s eyes darken, not even a moment spared for a courtesy glance at Kazuma’s face. But Naruhodou's gaze is a heavy thing, a touch of its own over the spread of him, a weight and heat trailing the draw of his fingers over the divide of Kazuma’s arse, his balls, collecting the spend from the base of Kazuma's cock to the head with only index and thumb.
“I don’t have any oil,” Naruhodou says.
Kazuma’s chest skips, knowing where this is going when he sees how Naruhodou is pushing Kazuma’s spend to the tip of his finger, gathering it into a great pearl.
“I think we can manage without it,” Kazuma breathes.
Naruhodou hums, seemingly catching the permission in the whisper, because then he sets to Kazuma, spreading the wetness over his rim and easing inside. He’s loose-limbed after the first climax, but it’s been such a long time since he’s taken anyone; impatient as he is, he’ll need some work before he’s relaxed enough to manage the thickness of Naruhodou’s cock.
“You shot more than ever, Asougi. Seems you’ve got plenty to spare, do you think we can milk more out of you if we need it?”
Milk. Kazuma’s whole body flares hot at the words, embarrassed that the genuinely contemplative look on Naruhodou’s face leaves him more wanting than horrified. Spoken in earnest, no calculation to it, no finesse. Just Naruhodou’s damn hindbrain, bizarre as Kazuma remembers it.
As if to prove his point, Naruhodou’s free hand closes firm around Kazuma’s cock, rolling his grip up and down the length of it, squeezing just right to encourage the precome to bead forth, stilting the rhythm of Kazuma’s breath with the lingering pressure at the height of each upstroke.
Kazuma’s hips twitch, his stomach rolling in anticipation, as Naruhodou gets a second finger in him, still tugging steadily at his cock all the while. Truth be told, he’d never enjoyed the sensation of one finger—too knobbly, the movement more apparent and intrusive. But Naruhodou never much enjoyed a vice grip on his cock, either. And they’d figured it out, nonetheless. Hushed and laughing, checking in on each other at every turn, scolding and soothing and whispering encouragements. Something would click at the second finger, and, sure enough, Naruhodou finds that spot inside of him now, massaging gently in the way that always made Kazuma melt.
Does Naruhodou remember? The summer when they fucked so often they barely needed anything before Naruhodou could guide himself right in. Just the faintly sweet powdery scent of nerigi, the filthy sounds of Naruhodou spitting into it, taking the mixture to his cock and pumping until it was slick and warm. When he’d rub the wet velvet of the head over Kazuma’s entrance, sliding inside like Kazuma was made for him. The phantom of that sensation, the precision of Naruhodou’s touch in the present—Kazuma can feel it, how open he is, the cloak scratching all over his back as he shivers.
“You’re pretty, Asougi,” Naruhodou breathes, reverent.
It’s like sighting a trainwreck—Kazuma looking at Naruhodou’s face, at how Naruhodou is watching him, and being unable to look away. He wants to kiss Naruhodou as much as he wants to halt this whole affair, hell to his own drug-addled prick, and go where Naruhodou can’t see him.
And still, still, most pressing—the need for Naruhodou to screw him so hard that his wretched heart can do nothing but pound, fighting to keep time.
“I’m ready,” Kazuma says, a losing snarl in the roughness of his voice. His grasp on himself is slipping, but there’ll be no judgment if he can drag Naruhodou down with him. “Want to put my mouth on you first.”
At the admission, Naruhodou groans out loud, easing his touch off Kazuma. “I want that too,” he murmurs. “But I need to last for you, we don’t have much time.”
Not got time.
Kazuma can’t—should absolutely not dig at the thought, so he lets go of his shins, planting his feet back on the divan before pushing himself up to kneel. Something to do other than pine for the days that have passed and the days they won’t have. He takes Naruhodou’s hand, the one that’s covered in Kazuma’s precome, and leads it to fist around Naruhodou’s cock, guiding the slickness all over him until he’s glistening, letting Naruhodou buck into the seal of their hands with a gasp.
“Oh God,” Naruhodou whines, so unabashed it feels like a gift. “I thought of it, though. Your mouth on me, Asougi…So many times, I felt like scum, like I was sullying your memory. But I dreamed of it, I did, of how you’d suck me off. How you’d take it, the way you used to look at me so proudly when I held you still and fucked your mouth. Did you know? Did I ever tell you? Asougi, you took me so well—you utter fool—so good at everything, so—”
Kazuma stills Naruhodou’s hand, slipping to take hold of his wrist. The blood in those words, the pulse of absence.
His eyes prickle. So he lets them droop, sleepy, knowing the shadow his eyelashes cast for how Naruhodou has grasped for him every time, and he lifts Naruhodou’s hand. Up to the height of their chests. Then, without looking at Naruhodou, he bows his head to take three fingers in his mouth. Languidly he sinks down, until he chokes, the point of brutality at the knuckle that has him sputtering, desperate as he lifts back off. The pressure at his temples, the life in the flutter of his chest as his lungs work, and the faint sting of salt from tears clinging to his lashes—but, grinning at Naruhodou, at least he’s given himself something to really cry about.
“Naruhodou, I’m only glad you didn’t forget.”
Naruhodou looks lost, mouth agape, eyes forlorn as he stares. Kazuma bends again, brushing his lips over the back of Naruhodou’s fingers, only the middle joints, feeling the flex of bone just barely parting his mouth. Laughing softly, the sound rasping slightly from Kazuma’s throat.
That tenderness again, the dangerous wave of it pouring the shadow further with each crest. Kazuma shakes his head and turns from it.
“Stay still,” he says. “Let me ride you.”
Naruhodou blows his breath out slow, nodding at Kazuma.
“We don’t have much space on the seat, so it’ll be easier. I know how much you’ll complain keeping your knees on the ground.”
“Well, you don’t need to say it like that,” Naruhodou mutters, eyebrows creasing. But at least it’s not the look from before, settled on Kazuma, lost as it had been searching.
“Just, why set out to make something more uncomfortable than need be?”
Kazuma laughs, had Naruhodou realised he phrased it the same as he had so many times in the past? Splayed out like a starfish on the floor as Kazuma fanned him lazily with a finished newspaper, when the humidity made the hours sticky and slow; legs hanging off the engawa, breeze weaving its way through their hair and between their arms; during late nights at the library, stomach rumbling; and on the way to a shrine, midway through the “shortcut” turned winding path. Still, always by Kazuma’s side.
He pats Naruhodou’s leg, watching hungrily as the muscle of his thigh twitches. Bracing himself by setting his fists into the divan and transferring his weight to his arms, Kazuma rises enough to swing himself over Naruhodou. Bracketing Naruhodou’s hips with his knees, poised above his lap, one hand finding purchase over the ridge of the backrest, the other coming to close around the base of Naruhodou’s cock. Then he leans in, hovering over Naruhodou to seal the scant space between them, so there’s nowhere else Naruhodou can look.
Comfort.
Grieving his dearest friend, staying in a foreign land under the guidance of a ghost. Looking Kazuma stubbornly in the eyes from across a courtroom.
Now, touching Kazuma, hands so kind on the consuming tangle of him, when what’s left for them is distance.
He could rest his forehead to Naruhodou’s. Kazuma watches, unblinking, the drunken flutter of Naruhodou’s eyelashes as his gaze comes to rest on Kazuma’s lips. He can feel the air fall from Naruhodou’s mouth in tandem with the movement of his chest. And there’s nothing at all noble about it—since Kazuma was 14, always the fledgling crow where it counts, perhaps destined only not to die—he lowers himself just enough to run the slick head of Naruhodou’s cock over his arse, slipping just the head inside to watch how Naruhodou’s face crumples. He sucks in his breath, holds it, to feel the searing tremble of both of their self-control, before sinking down, trembling still. Only halfway, so for a moment the world becomes inescapable, tethered by the relentless stretch, the sheer girth of Naruhodou, the sleek brand of him inside of Kazuma.
“Naruhodou…” More air than voice, and there’s a thousand ways to finish the thought but more than anything, Kazuma might just be marvelling at the simple fact of him.
Naruhodou groans. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me.”
He’s shaking with the effort to keep still, just as he was asked. So considerate, Kazuma could shatter in his palms. Slowly, Kazuma lifts his hand from the base of Naruhodou’s cock, brushes his knuckles feather-soft over where Naruhodou is clenching his jaw. And then, shuddering, Kazuma lets the tension in his thighs melt, dropping down the last few inches, seating himself all the way on Naruhodou’s lap.
He hears Naruhodou groan, feels Naruhodou twitch inside of him, pushing a groan up from his chest in turn. There’s the errant desire, something dark and desperate and fragile in the pit of his stomach, to just stay here, brimming full with Naruhodou, never releasing him.
But more pressing, Kazuma might jump out of his own skin if he doesn’t move—his cock between them aches like never before. And Naruhodou’s breath is quickening, watching him like life or death.
Kazuma moves to grip the backrest with both hands, using the leverage to drag himself almost all the way off Naruhodou before filling himself up again. And then, gasping, it’s like muscle memory kicks in, wearing him supple as a favourite pair of gloves—just how to take Naruhodou. Soon, he’s rolling his hips, sinuous and perfected after all the times he’s done this in the past. Naruhodou’s hands stay off, but his forehead falls to press against Kazuma’s chest. And he's heavy, hot and soaking, his breath ticklish against the sweat on Kazuma’s skin.
Kazuma is drenched, wetness painting the back of his neck too, but it’s not the feverishness of earlier. More an awareness, closing in, precise and slow. Itchy, like watching the tick of the long hand on a clock, his pulse throbbing in his ears.
His cock is weeping precome with each stroke. He knows if he touches it he’ll spend. So he doesn’t, the rhythm of his hips starting to stutter, inconsistent. So that the perfect depth Naruhodou reaches starts to edge on cruel when Kazuma can’t fill up on him as quick as he needs.
“I only want—just want to be—just want it to be good for you.” He’s whimpering, incoherent, these words he didn’t even know he was keeping, wrenched out of him, open to the elements.
Naruhodou sounds just as wrecked, at least. “It is. You are. Asougi—”
He should’ve seen it coming when Naruhodou splinters, hand stealing out to grasp Kazuma’s cock—one tight stroke of it—the press of teeth against his breastbone. And Kazuma convulses, spilling right into Naruhodou’s hand. Naruhodou releases him at once, but its blazing white agony when, heedless, he sinks himself right back down onto Naruhodou anyway, fluttering around the intrusion of him, screaming into rolled up silk when Naruhodou manages to stuff his tie into Kazuma’s mouth just in time to muffle the outburst.
An eternity, and Kazuma can feel how tightly Naruhodou is holding himself, tensed inside of him, waiting for the sign. Distant through the dizzy rush, and then dipping closer, he hears Naruhodou’s voice. “Please, please, Asougi, I’ll hurt you if you…”
And—Kazuma could cry—oversensitive as he is, he’s still hard. The tyranny of that pollen. He yanks the tie from his mouth, panting.
“Move,” he says. “Fuck me again."
The command itches, like worn plaster, the only way for Kazuma to keep himself from stating the pathetic truth. As simple as it is incorrigible: it all hurts. The gap between them weighs, could bury him alive. But the clarity of Naruhodou’s touch, too—liquid, suspending, escaping as it washes over him, fills him—it’s the loneliest thing. Just him, still. After this and always. This relentless bruise of a misshapen heartbeat.
“God, Asougi don’t be insane! It’s difficult to know, sometimes. If you want it to hurt because you truly like it, or if you like it to hurt because you think it should.”
Kazuma shakes his head. Levels Naruhodou with one terrible word, an honest one. “Please.”
Desperate, he tries to lift himself just enough to grind down on Naruhodou’s prick. But all he can do is moan brokenly, bested by both the sensation and the effort.
Naruhodou’s mouth drops again, that hapless crease of his brows at the sight of Kazuma, at what he’s been reduced to.
“Please,” Kazuma repeats, resolving not to say it again.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. Naruhodou’s hands find his waist, gentle at first, then firm as he drags Kazuma off him, digging his fingers in some version of assurance when Kazuma quivers at the loss. So fucked out, he only registers that Naruhodou is manoeuvring them to adjust their positions when he feels the upholstery against his back.
Then Naruhodou’s hands slide from his waist to the underside of his knees, folding his legs with a light touch, parting as easy as susuki grass. Just enough space for Naruhodou to rest a knee between the backrest and Kazuma’s hip, the frame of him over Kazuma its own shelter.
Everything else falls away. Naruhodou runs his cock up against Kazuma’s, collecting the spend there again. One, two pumps to spread it, and then, finally, he lines up and pushes back in, settling inside Kazuma with the easy certainty of nocking an arrow.
Kazuma whines, twitching around Naruhodou, too out of it to care. He'd never truly surfaced before being submerged again, diffusing into sensation, every rough breath falling for Naruhodou.
Three shaky seconds before he feels Naruhodou start to move inside of him, gasping, melting to lean over him. So that they're face-to-face as Kazuma finds the strength to cross his ankles behind Naruhodou’s back, guarding the weight of him.
When their eyes meet it’s tidal; Kazuma saturated with every touch from their encounters in the past, when they’d come so close to having each other like this. All those times he’d sunk his face into the futon, feeling like he could suffocate. The testing brush of Naruhodou’s fingers on the back of his neck, the fumbling grasp of his hip, just starting to tug.
And there’s no high summer, no rising scent of tatami from the humidity, no space to spread out and laugh from their bellies—but here is Naruhodou, the inexorable stretch, the salt, the onslaught and the surrender of him.
So close they're pressing air to each other’s mouth. Every push of Naruhodou’s hips, every exhale, eroding Kazuma. Wrung out, his vision going muzzy round the edges when Naruhodou tips his forehead against Kazuma's own. He was always so thick Kazuma could feel him everywhere, but at this angle, the curve of his cock strikes just right with every thrust, driving Kazuma delirious with it. Dripping all over himself, he might have been coming for days.
And Naruhodou’s eyes. Pinning Kazuma under his gaze like something fine-boned, penetrated by lamplight. The glow stretching its fingers to the core of him.
Licking his lips, Kazuma can taste it when Naruhodou whispers, “Please, Asougi. Come on, please—”
With a weak shout, not even a touch, the last swell of pressure flares at the base of Kazuma’s cock. He arches his back deep into the pleasure, the achy draw of the little left in him to give. Tremulous relief takes his limbs in a wave as Naruhodou buries himself, gasping, pulsing in Kazuma as he fills him with warmth.
And Kazuma goes, shivering apart into the weathered animal of his body, something pure and mercurial when Naruhodou presses their open mouths together, gasping into the taste of each other. Sinking as he feels Naruhodou soften inside of him, time dissolving into a kiss, lost as shadow becomes shadow, light in light.
But then there’s the fundamental problem of a needy set of lungs. So they part. And then comes the other problem of Kazuma having three orgasms wrung out of him in succession, utterly spent. His body so beaten by it that it’s a fight not to strike at Naruhodou with every tiny shift as he pulls out of Kazuma, wincing.
The air is cool again, washing over the sweat of them. And Kazuma can see now that Naruhodou had never gotten his socks off, though one of them seems to have managed to push one askew around his left calf. Kazuma’s heart clenches at that, so he turns onto his side, away from Naruhodou, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the play of expressions he’d just watched cross Naruhodou’s face. But it's futile; the memories being etched into his marrow by the second, muddying the water of his blood.
He lets himself be jostled as Naruhodou flops down to squeeze in behind him, pressed against the line of Kazuma’s back, heartbeat everywhere in him. Shy again, his fingers skittering over Kazuma’s rib and up, thumb rubbing at his sternum. A kiss dropped to the base of Kazuma’s neck.
Slow and inevitable, their breath returns to them. Not a word spoken.
And when Kazuma opens his eyes, surrounded by the quiet warmth of Naruhodou’s touch, the crack of light from under the door reaches for them, yellowed and waiting.