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The body above him moves slowly, carefully, swaying them together like waves in the middle of the ocean. Gentle. They’ve been like this for hours, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, yet they keep going, unable or perhaps unwilling to stop.
Sasaki’s skin is damp and sticky, almost uncomfortably so. He feels hot and slightly sore from the waist-down, but he makes no complaints, instead wraps his arms tighter around the shoulders above him.
How did he even get here? What is he even doing? This isn’t like him. He’s not the type to just pick up some stranger and fall into their bed.
Yet here he is, on his back with his legs spread, begging for more even after he’s come. Even more perplexingly, the stranger silently obliges, and Sasaki has no idea how this strange man has been able to continue, let alone why he even agrees.
Why he even allowed Sasaki into his bed in the first place.
This is the first time they have met. They do not know each other.
They do not know each other, yet this stranger caresses him like a lover would, holds him as though he’s found something sacred. Touches his body as though it were a terrain explored and conquered, mapped out with all its secrets laid bare. It leaves Sasaki feeling a bit more than exposed, although he doesn’t have the frame of mind to question it too closely—there’s something inside of him, desperately clawing its way out, and it has chosen this person as its escape vehicle.
A gasp, and he’s riding yet another tidal wave of pleasure, coursing through his veins and setting his limbs ablaze. Above him, the stranger stills, trembles. Sasaki grabs onto him tighter.
His body, impossibly, feels hotter than when he first woke up, disoriented and vision swimming. At first he wondered if it was a cold, or perhaps the flu—did ghouls even get sick? Was it because it had been a while since he had last eaten? Sasaki had been told ghouls didn’t need to eat that often, but then again, he didn’t eat like normal ghouls.
Was it simply a peculiarity associated with his condition?
Artificial. A half-existence.
It would figure that his first solo mission would start off with him falling ill.
Normally, ghoul investigators were paired off to ensure safety, but with personnel at an all-time low and workloads at an all-time high, there wasn’t much to do about it. Sasaki had wished that he’d had at least one person from his Quinx squad with him, but Chigyou-sensei had performed adjustments on all of their kakuhou, so they were all still in recovery.
There was work to do, and only one way to get it done.
He was experienced, and it was only a reconnaissance job. Sasaki had been surprised at the assignment—not even Akira would be going with him.
“You’ll be fine,” Akira had assured him, “You’re only to observe the area. There will be other investigators within a two-kilometer radius if anything were to happen.”
She’d given him a smile, though barely detectable. “Even baby birds need to leave the nest, sometimes.”
His mission was to keep his eyes and ears open, then report in. Nothing more.
It had started with a trip to the pharmacy. Not wanting to give up and return to headquarters for a doctor’s visit that could potentially be cured by mere over-the-counter medication, Sasaki had determinedly set out despite his body’s protests. It had been odd: he’d felt warm all over, his body had ached, he’d wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, yet something had pulled him along, willing him to wander outside.
He had almost instantly regretted that decision. Upon first step beyond his hotel door, his senses had been assaulted. The barest touch of sunlight had made Sasaki feel as though his skin were going to blister and explode. Colors had bled together, objects stretching and bending. He had rubbed his eyes and blinked several times, but everything had remained distorted. Absently, Sasaki had wondered whether his eyes were acting up again. He’d regretted leaving his glasses behind.
Most of all, he’d noticed every smell: exhaust from passing cars, the stench of rotting trash piled in bags alongside a fast food restaurant, the light trail of perfume off a woman walking by, which otherwise should have been pleasant but instead had made his stomach lurch with nausea. Of all his ghoul senses, his nose is the weakest. Sasaki hadn’t understood.
But the only way he were to fight off this illness would be to get proper treatment. Pushing past his discomfort, Sasaki had trudged along, destination in mind.
Every step had felt like dragging lead. Sweat had dripped uncomfortably down his collar, chafing against his neck. The weather had felt sweltering, yet it was only spring. Bile continued to burn at the back of his throat, threatening to rise up.
He’d thought he were about to pass out.
And then a clean scent had cut through the cloying stench. Sasaki had felt like his lungs had been gifted by a gust of pure air, and so he’d followed it mindlessly. It simultaneously had soothed his aching body and made it sear with more ferocity. His vision had cleared along this trail, but everything else had appeared like washed-out watercolors on paper.
The scent had belonged to a person. Before he’d even realized what he’d been about to do, Sasaki had collided with this stranger, twisting his fists into the back of the stranger’s jacket and unintentionally unbalancing the stranger’s hold on his shopping bag. Coffee beans and a bouquet of flowers had spilled onto the asphalt, a handful of satsuma meeting their end as they’d splattered across the pavement.
“Ah, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me-” Sasaki had stammered, sure his cheeks were burning as brightly as he’d felt. But the stranger had merely stilled then slowly turned, his eyes widening when Sasaki had finally worked up the nerve to look the man in the face.
“Bear it no mind,” the stranger had replied, the surprise on his face receding to something more placid. Unreadable.
“Let me help you with that,” Sasaki had stooped low to retrieve the ruined fruit, the sudden motion almost causing him to keel over. He held on; he couldn’t just pass out on the street. There had been nothing he could do about it, save for reimbursing the stranger, but all attempts had been brushed off. When they’d reached for the same flower stem, their fingers had briefly shared the barest of touches, but the stranger’s eyes had flown wide again, and something in the pit of Sasaki’s stomach boiled.
In the middle of a residential road, on a quiet spring morning, Sasaki had closed his hand over the stranger’s and pulled him in for a kiss.
He must have been possessed. There was no other explanation. That simple, chaste connection of lips pressed against lips had ignited something in the both of them, and feeling as though he wouldn’t have been able to remain conscious should he have continued fighting it, Sasaki had given in.
The groceries had been abandoned on the street. The stranger had pulled Sasaki, and Sasaki had urged him on, hastily crossing to enter a rather unassuming apartment building, jabbing at elevator buttons. They kissed with fervor when the doors had slid shut, teeth tugging on lips, barely making it to the stranger’s own door after they’d reopened.
“I want you to fuck me,” Sasaki had breathed into the locks of hair covering the stranger’s ear, surprising himself. Vocalizing his desire, seemingly from nowhere.
That’s all the convincing it had taken.
And so here he is, giving himself to some stranger he quite literally met off the street. And to another guy, no less. Sasaki hadn’t ever given much thought to men or women: his life is too constrained for things like romance. He practically lives his job with every breath, serves as a makeshift single parent to a small group of young adults. Time for himself is scarce. Time to build others into that small amount of time is even more scarce.
If he lets his mind drift enough, stretch itself into the dark recesses that fill his being with terror, Sasaki can detect a feminine presence. Her features are always out of focus, but there’s a brushstroke of purple that trails about her. It’s so similar to the color belonging to this stranger he’s with now, although this is a shader deeper, cooler. He tries not to dwell on this thought too long. Retreats back to his senses, reels his mind back into familiar territory.
He doesn’t know what time it is. How much time has passed in this room.
Belatedly, he realizes he hasn’t reported in—was he supposed to? Surely, someone would have noted his absence...?
Sasaki is amazed that this stranger will follow his every whim, that he endures although Sasaki knows he must be pushing his body’s limits.
The person he is with is a ghoul. His eyes had changed almost immediately after they had entered the bedroom, falling onto the bed together. Sasaki knows that his eye has changed, as well. There’s no hiding who they are. It’s a bit surprising that the stranger makes no mention of his peculiarity.
Sasaki knows he should report this ghoul later, but he can’t find it in himself to do it. Knows he should kill him himself.
He doesn’t have his quinque. Not that it even matters.
They haven’t stopped to eat or drink anything the entire time they’ve been together. It’s been a steady cycle of sex and sleep, waking to repeat, driven by impulse. Sasaki wonders about ghoul appetites—when this ghoul has last eaten. Although he appears strong—there is certainly evidence of physical might woven throughout this person’s form—he also appears thinner than expected of someone with this build. Sasaki himself is on a scheduled, regimented diet, so things like hunting and feeding and hunger are foreign to him.
It’s strange how this all feels familiar. They don't talk much, or really at all. The room is full of sounds of bodies colliding, gasps and pants. Sometimes the stranger mutters things in languages Sasaki can’t understand. The words fall in and out of his ears, catching and escaping, sounding like a hymn,
“...sembles le même...tu as...odeur...aussi...présence.”
“Je...croyais mort.”
chanted almost reverently,
“Perchè ti comporti...non mi conoscessi?”
“Suis-je...de rêver?”
and it makes something in Sasaki’s chest sting, and he knows it has nothing to do with his current physical predicament.
“...favore...sii reale.”
“...piacere...non andartene.”
Sometimes there’s the hint of a name on the stranger’s lips, but it’s swallowed before it ever reaches air. Sasaki feels as though he’d shatter if he heard it.
“Je t’ai...trop tard.”
Sometimes this stranger looks at him with an expression that Sasaki can only describe as grief. His hand would linger over Sasaki’s lower stomach, an unreadable expression on his face. At these times, Sasaki would kiss the stranger as though they were both about to break, and the stranger would tremble through a stilted exhalation, and then the moment would pass.
His back is flat against the mattress, the sheets ridiculously luxurious compared to the scratchy ones he has back at the château. The stranger kneels between his raised hips, catching his breath.
“Keep going,” Sasaki pants, even though they’re both already spent. He craves this stranger’s touch, feels like he’ll lose his mind without it. Needs more and more and more until there’s nothing left. Whatever is happening with Sasaki’s body keeps him hard despite already coming. It seems it imparts a similar effect on his partner, as well.
Sasaki doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. It feels nice to lose himself.
The stranger—god, Sasaki doesn’t even know his name—pulls out and turns him over, pushing Sasaki into the mattress on his elbows. His hand curls around to fist at Sasaki’s cock, sliding slowly along its length. Sasaki gasps, comes again, but behind him the stranger resumes moving.
They don’t last much longer. Fingers dig into Sasaki’s hips, rough enough to leave bruises if he’d still been human. There’s one final thrust, and then stillness followed by the crawling sensation of the stranger’s release dripping down Sasaki’s thighs. Sasaki collapses back onto the bed, sure they’ll once again succumb to sleep, but then he feels a slick tongue pressed against his inner thigh, trailing upward. He shivers bodily, focusing on his breathing as the stranger bends Sasaki’s knees toward his chest and laps at his skin.
His mind drifts again. Sometimes the stranger has this look in his eyes, as though he’s seeing through Sasaki—seeing someone or something else—but it’s hard to think about when he’s licking cum off Sasaki’s stomach and traveling downward.
Sasaki bites a finger and squeezes his eyes shut as the stranger closes his mouth around Sasaki’s cock, willing himself not to count backwards. It’s an odd habit he picked up after waking up, bandaged and alone in a sterile hospital room. He doesn’t like it.
He threads a hand through the stranger’s hair, rubbing the tips between his fingers. It’s soft and a little long—in need of a trim, probably.
He’s beautiful, Sasaki thinks.
A sigh escapes his lips. His fingers wind further into the man’s hair, massaging at the scalp, keeping the man’s mouth covering him. He feels the veins under his kakugan twitch.
Of their own accord, his hips start to move. His hands fist tighter, trapping the stranger’s head in place. Sasaki is mortified at himself, but his fingers won’t unlatch, his hips are unceasing in their movement. But rather than try to struggle away, the stranger moans openly as Sasaki fucks his face, as though in ecstasy. Sasaki knows he’s being too rough, knows how dangerous this act could be if the stranger were to bite down, but he feels no fear or apprehension.
It’s not exactly trust, but it’s close enough.
When he finishes, his fingers finally unlace from the stranger’s hair. The stranger bobs his head up and down Sasaki’s cock one more time before lifting off. He swallows with a grin.
“Très bien.” Sasaki shivers.
The stranger crawls back up the bed, pulls Sasaki in close, and they both surrender to sleep.
He’s dreaming. Sasaki knows this must be a dream, because his hair isn’t completely black. It’d been mostly white when he woke up, and a small patch of black has slowly begun to sprout at the center of his head. Saiko had teased him about it, once. He’s viewing the scene at a distance, but also through his dream self’s eyes. It should be disorienting, but it is not.
He’s reading. He’s outside. It must be autumn, because leaves are scattered on the ground, and he’s wearing a sweater. He can’t make out the words on the pages.
A crunching sound announces the presence of another.
“Hey.”
The face is obscured by a cloud of mosaics, but the person is dressed casually: long open cardigan over a thin shirt and jeans. Tall. Male. His voice scratches at the back of Sasaki’s memory. Sasaki thinks this man might have introduced himself, but the words are garbled. His head fills with static.
“Is it okay...if I sit down?”
“Um, sure,” he hears himself reply. His skin feels goosebumped although it’s not that cold outside. His heartbeat is erratic.
It’s dark. He’s alone. The air is musty, like it’s been recirculated. He’s wearing a tuxedo, and there’s red all around him, but he’s only looking upward.
The moon shines back at him.
There’s a whisper in his ear. It creeps like a bug skittering through his brain. “Could you please forget about this for me?”
He doesn’t want to forget.
The city is bright before him. There’s a siren in the distance. His hair is now completely white, a stark contrast against everything else that is bathed in black. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the city alive below him.
It’s time to go.
“I won’t let you leave.”
His chest feels tight. Why is this person crying?
“If something were to happen to you,”—a muted break—“what would I do…?”
He’s standing in a field of flowers. They’re very red, in full bloom.
There’s a steady beeping by his temple. The ceiling above him is flooded by fluorescent light. This is a dream.
There are tears in his eyes when he wakes. Opening his eyes, Sasaki finds that his stranger is quietly staring at him, carefully touching his hair. A thumb moves to collect a tear and brush it aside. Sasaki hadn’t noticed before, but his stranger’s eyes are very red, even without the kakugan.
It reminds him of flowers with thin, arching petals. He’d stood in a field of them, once. Perhaps.
He still feels in a daze. His skin still scorches. He wants to peel it off. His stranger moves in slowly, gently, noses against Sasaki’s cheek and brings their lips together. Sasaki closes his eyes and breathes in.
It’s over too soon. Sasaki flutters his eyes open again and looks up. It’s a mistake. He can’t tear his eyes away. The gaze that stares back at him is so very intense, like something deep, something heavy, lurks beneath its surface.
But it’s a crazy thought. This is the first time they’ve met.
He sucks in a breath as a hand slips between his legs, palming at his arousal, slipping fingers inside. It’s a bit absurd—being stretched is the furthest thing he needs at this point—but then the fingers begin to move—stroking, curling, searching—and Sasaki wants.
He moans, growls, turns over onto his stomach and up on his knees, pleads. It’s embarrassing how easily his body opens for his stranger, how easily they fit together. How his stranger has never denied him anything, and how he’s never really had to ask.
It’s different this time. His stranger slides in, and it feels invasive in a way it hadn’t previously. Sasaki can feel every jerking motion, feels the heat that had spread over his body begin to concentrate between his legs. The scent of the room has changed: it’s less heady, a note of sweetness rising distinctly. Sasaki meets every thrust with one of his own in reverse, burying his stranger deep inside him. It feels like they’re animals, frenetic and desperate, allowing nature to take over.
His back tingles, along the spine. Sasaki knows what’s about to happen, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Four blood-red tendrils erupt from his kakuhou, growing and stretching. He can’t control them. They lash out, wrapping around his stranger’s torso, pulling him down, pressing them flush together. Aiding their frantic beat. Holding them together as they both come.
Still inside, his stranger traces his hands down Sasaki’s body, over the kagune still tying them to one another. One rests hesitantly over Sasaki’s belly, while the other gently cups between his legs. There’s something wet collecting on his shoulder, and his stranger is muttering something low in his ear.
It’s truly illogical, but Sasaki is certain his heart is about to break. He twists, bringing a hand up to cup the side of his stranger’s face, and kisses where he can: at the corner of his mouth, the rise of his cheekbone, the tip of his nose.
His kagune unwind and retract. He wants to know what his stranger’s kagune looks like. It must be something magnificent. He does not ask.
His stranger pulls away and lays him down upon his back. Sasaki reclines. Relaxes. His stranger covers his hands with his own, threading their fingers together.
It feels too intimate, but Sasaki allows it. His eyes begin to prickle, tears unexpectedly beginning to slide down his face. He doesn’t know why. It’s stupid; it’s bizarre. Nothing about this encounter has made any sense.
The fingers around his flex and tighten. His stranger dips down, kissing his cheeks, tasting his tears. It’s far too intimate, far too gentle, something a stranger wouldn’t do—it makes Sasaki cry even harder, shaking with something that feels like sorrow, but it also makes his body ignite with a fiercer need. He’s terrified of what this may lead to, if such a thing were even possible, but he finds himself tilting his hips upward, wrapping his legs around his stranger’s hips.
Their movements are slower this time, more deliberate. Sasaki meets his stranger’s gaze directly, keeping his eyes open. Their bodies roll against each other, no longer a storm nor an easy undulation, but like a steady wave coming to shore.
He can tell his stranger is getting close. Holding his breath, Sasaki quickly flips them, pressing his stranger back onto the bed and straddling him. He pauses, breathing shallowly, looking down through heavy-lidded eyes and careful not to move. His stranger is just barely holding on—his hips are jumping, the veins of his kakugan are dark and raised—but the interest is clear in his eyes. His hands snake up to Sasaki’s hips and hold on lightly.
Sasaki braces his palms against his stranger’s chest and rises up, descending slowly. It’s almost more than he can bear. But he started this, after all, and so he will be the one to finish it.
Pressure, friction, heat—everything builds to an almost-giddy lightheadedness. One of his stranger’s hands has encircled his cock, and Sasaki finds himself rocking against his stranger’s body, thrusting into his stranger’s warm hand and sitting back on his cock. He’s reached the precipice: just a moment more, and he’s sure to hurtle over. The hand around him squeezes, and he’s pitching forward, a sharp dive into a white abyss, releasing into his stranger’s hand. His stranger holds on before he follows.
They are a complete mess. Sasaki almost fears that his body will react again, but with that, his fever breaks. He can feel something inside him switch, and he knows whatever it was that overcame him has passed.
They fall asleep in each other’s arms.
“Would you please not go?”
“The one I wanted to protect was…”
“I’m so sorry.”
It’s morning. Of this, Sasaki is sure. The sun is still low in the sky, peeking in through the heavily curtained windows. His stranger is still sound asleep. Sasaki brushes the man’s bangs out of his face; he does not stir.
They really wore each other out.
He feels...back to normal. Well, not exactly normal—he can’t quite shake the hunch that something is different, though undetectable.
He needs to leave. It would make too much noise to steal a shower, and although Sasaki is certain it wouldn’t wake his stranger, he doesn’t want to chance it. He painstakingly extracts himself from his stranger’s hold, shifts cautiously off the bed. Slides to his feet and settles his weight before standing. He hurts a lot less than he’d expected.
Treading quietly to what he guesses (hopes) is the bathroom, Sasaki pauses before the door and slowly turns the handle. Luck is on his side today. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before sneaking in, and finding a washcloth, he quickly runs it under the taps and rubs it briskly over his body.
He looks into the mirror, examining his body from different angles. His reflection hasn’t changed. He doesn’t necessarily feel different. He wonders if anyone else would be able to tell.
Creeping back into the bedroom, Sasaki hurriedly gathers up his clothes and dresses in the dim light. He nearly bumps into a floor lamp in his haste, but he manages to slip out of the room and through the apartment undetected. He wonders briefly if he should have taken a parting glance, stolen a final kiss, but Sasaki reasons that a clean break is probably for the best.
This isn’t some fairy tale. With a significant portion of his life as a mystery, he can’t bring himself to believe in things like fate.
He’s out of breath and exhausted by the time he swipes into his hotel room. Flopping gracelessly onto his own bed, Sasaki clutches onto a pillow and buries his face into it. He wants to scream. It’s far too early for this.
Reluctantly, he rolls close enough to the nightstand to retrieve his cellphone. It is suspiciously (blessedly) devoid of missed calls.
Sasaki sleeps, dreamless. When he wakes hours later, it takes him a drawn-out moment to remember where he is.
Oh. No wonder. Sasaki stares down at himself, aghast. It’s no wonder he’d felt lost.
He still smells of the stranger. He’s wearing the man’s shirt, after all.
Placing his head in his hands, Sasaki groans loudly.
He’d been played by Lady Luck.
Two days later, Sasaki finds himself standing outside of an unfamiliar door. He doesn’t have much recollection of this hallway, although he’d definitely passed through it days ago. He’s been standing in front of it for too long—enough to raise suspicion to anyone paying attention—and so Sasaki musters up his courage.
It’s only a doorbell.
He sucks in a deep breath and holds it. Presses the button. He can hear the electronic “pin-pon” chime through the door.
He’s fidgeting. This is unlike him. If he doesn’t stop, he’s going to begin to sweat. He shouldn’t be so nervous.
It feels like his skeleton could jump out from within him at any moment.
He waits.
He realizes after the fact that there’s a nameplate above the doorbell.
Moon mountain. Gassan? Gatsusan? Or perhaps as simple as Tsukiyama?
Sasaki suddenly wants to know.
The door opens. The scent beyond is familiar. Soothing. Welcome.
“Ah, I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced, but I had no way of contacting you, so…” he trails off rather lamely. He can feel the blood rush to his cheeks. He wants to disappear behind the bag he’s clutching. Instead, he holds it out. “Um. I, uh, accidentally took your shirt instead of my own. It’s been washed and pressed! So…”
Why was he so bad at this?
“I’m sor-”
“Would you like to come in?” his stranger smiles at him. “I could make you some coffee. I also have something to return to you.”
“Oh! Right!” Sasaki says as the realization hits him. Of course they would have to exchange. “If you don’t mind the intrusion, then…”
His stranger steps back, allowing Sasaki to duck inside. He toes off his shoes in the small genkan and follows his stranger into the kitchen. Everything looks so different illuminated.
“You can leave the bag on the couch; I’ll take care of it later,” his stranger calls from the corner. “I have your shirt in the closet. In the meanwhile, please make yourself at home.”
Sasaki nods, doing as instructed before awkwardly perching next to the bag on the couch. He scans the room: it’s lined with bookcases that are filled to the brim, and there’s a small upright piano tucked away in a windowed nook. Across the coffee table is a leather wingback chair, draped with a plush blanket. It must be where his stranger does his reading. No television, but there is an old-style dial radio sitting atop a shelf.
It’s warm yet solitary. It’s a different feel from the château.
A mug appears before his face, breaking his reverie. “I assume you take it black, non?” his stranger says. Sasaki nods again and accepts the mug graciously.
His stranger takes the opposite seat. They sip in silence. It’s maddening.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” he questions abruptly. His stranger does not appear perplexed in the least; it’s as though he were expecting this reaction.
“Does it matter?” comes the reply, somber. “You were the one who chose me.” His gaze is unflinching.
It takes Sasaki aback. “I- you’re right,” he murmurs, staring into the depths of his cup. “I still don’t quite understand it myself...” He lifts his eyes and dares to hope. He wants to reach out—touch, taste, feel this man’s soft lips against his once more—but he stays seated in place. Maybe this is the beginning of fate. “Could you please tell me your name? I saw it outside the door, but...”
“Tsukiyama. Tsukiyama Shuu.”
It’s a good name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Tsukiyama-san.”