Archive of Our Own

The knock comes at midnight.

The photo's been open for—Yoshiki doesn't know. Long enough that his phone dimmed twice. Hikaru in a charcoal suit. A woman in a pale blue dress, her hand on his arm.

Can you believe it? Our Hikaru, getting married next month!

There's a glass on the table next to his phone, amber liquid gone warm, ice long melted.

The second knock is sharper. Impatient.

Yoshiki knows that rhythm. Has heard it a thousand times against his childhood bedroom window. His body knows before his brain catches up, pulse kicking at the base of his throat.

He's been half-expecting it since the message came. Worse—half-wanting it. Some confrontation that would justify the last two years. Some explanation that would make it hurt less.

Pathetic.

He crosses the eight steps it takes to traverse his entire apartment.

Through the peephole: white hair catching the hallway's fluorescent wash.

Yoshiki's hand freezes on the doorknob.

He could pretend he's not home. Could wait until Hikaru gives up, leaves, goes back to whatever hotel he's staying at. Goes back to her.

He opens the door.

Hikaru's cut his hair. That's the first thing he notices. White strands styled up with product. In high school, they would've caught each other's eye and laughed. The jacket has actual structure to it, pressed seams, and it fits him wrong. Too perfect. Hikaru looks like those preserved insects Yoshiki studies: pinned behind glass, posed in positions they'd never hold while alive. Beautiful in a way that means dead. Not his anymore. 

Yoshiki's throat tightens. 

And he's suddenly aware of his own holey t-shirt, his unwashed hair, the dark circles under his eyes. The mole on his left cheek stark against skin that's gone pale from spending too much time indoors. The one under his right eye, the one beneath his lip. Hikaru used to kiss all three in order—right eye, left cheek, mouth—like a ritual. Like Yoshiki was something to be worshipped. Something that bloomed under his attention.

Now he just looks tired. Sun-starved. 

Hikaru's already become the person he's supposed to be. The Indou heir with the right haircut, the right clothes, the right fiancée.

And Yoshiki's still just this.

"Hey." That Kansai drawl unchanged. Hikaru's eyes flick over him—taking in the sweatpants, the threadbare shirt hanging loose on his shoulder, the shortened hair that used to fall past his eyes. His mouth quirks slightly. "Rough night?"

Yoshiki's not giving him that. "What're ya doin' here?"

The almost-smile fades. "Can I come in?" Hikaru shifts his weight, and that's when Yoshiki notices the leather bag slung over his shoulder. Big enough for a change of clothes. Maybe two.

Every instinct screams to say no. Yoshiki steps aside.

The apartment is barely ten square meters. One room. Futon folded against the far wall, low table in the middle with textbooks stacked precariously, tiny kitchen counter to the left.

With Hikaru inside, the space feels even smaller—his pressed jacket and expensive bag filling the room, filling Yoshiki's chest. There's no oxygen left to spare. Hikaru's eyes go to the futon first. The same one from Yoshiki's bedroom in Mie. Hikaru knows that futon. Knows every corner of it. His eyes move to the window overlooking a parking lot instead of the mountains.

Hikaru sets his bag down and steps out of his shoes. Leaves them by the door, in the only space that won't block the walkway.

"How'd ya find me?" Yoshiki closes the door. Doesn't lock it. Keeps his back to it.

"Yer sister." Hikaru hasn't moved from his spot near the entrance. They're maybe nine feet apart—the farthest they can be in this shoebox apartment—but Yoshiki can still smell him. Some cologne that costs more than Yoshiki's rent, probably. But underneath: fabric softener. The same brand Hikaru's mother used. Skin. Sweat from the train. It makes his stomach clench.

"Of course." He moves toward the low table, puts it between them. "She sent me a photo. Earlier."

Hikaru's shoulders tense visibly. "Yeah?"

Yoshiki picks up his glass. The whiskey is warm now, diluted. He takes a sip, feels the burn. "Congratulations. She's real pretty."

"Yoshiki—"

"Next month, right?" Not really a question. "Must be busy with preparations."

Silence. Yoshiki can feel Hikaru's eyes on him.

"It wasn't my choice. The timin'—"

"Right." Yoshiki takes another drink. The burn doesn't ground him anymore. He reaches for the bottle, pours another finger he doesn't want. Stares at it. Anything to not look at Hikaru. "But marryin' her was."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Yoshiki finally looks up. Hikaru's grey eyes are dark, that crooked canine visible as he worries his lower lip—the same tooth Yoshiki used to trace with his tongue until Hikaru laughed and called him weird. "Ya could've called. Could've texted. It's been two years, Hikaru."

"Ya blocked my number."

"After five months of nothin'." Yoshiki grips the edge of the table. "What was I supposed to do?"

Hikaru takes a step closer. The floorboards creak. "Ya could've tried harder."

Yoshiki's grip tightens on the table. He did try. For months he tried—texted first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Sent photos of Tokyo temples, bakeries and manga stores, of stupid things that reminded him of Hikaru. The memory twists painfully in his guts.

"I know." Hikaru's eyes are still on his face. "I read every single one."

Yoshiki looks away, jaw working.

"But didn't respond."

"I couldn't—" Hikaru sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "Ya were gone. What was the point?"

"I was gone." The laugh that escapes him is bitter. "Right."

"Ya think I want this?"

He doesn't answer. Doesn't want to think about what Hikaru wants, what Hikaru doesn't want. It doesn't matter anymore.

"Ya stayed. Proposed to her. Ya moved on."

"Move on?" There's something dangerous in Hikaru's tone. "And what about ya?"

Yoshiki doesn't look up. "What about me?"

"Did ya move on?" Hikaru's voice is right behind him now. Yoshiki forces himself to keep staring at the water ring on the wood. "Two years in Tokyo. Big city."

Yoshiki's heart hammers. "I'm doin' fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"I got a life here." His voice is too tight. "School. Friends."

"Friends." Hikaru draws out the word like taffy. Yoshiki didn't hear him come around—suddenly he's at the edge of the table, hands braced on the surface. "What kind of friends?"

Yoshiki's hand twitches toward the glass. He pulls it back, shoves it in his pocket instead. "The normal kind."

"Yoshiki."

Yoshiki turns—

Hikaru's right there. Not at the table anymore. Close enough to touch. Yoshiki steps back reflexively. His shoulders hit the wall.

Hikaru's eyes have darkened to near-black, fixed on his face. "The kind ya fuck?"

"Ya got no right to show up here and—"

"How many?"

Yoshiki's breath catches. The question is a vice in his lungs, or maybe that's just Hikaru, so close the truth is the only thing that'll fit between them.

His mouth opens—

"How many, Yoshiki?"

"Does it matter?"

Hikaru just watches him. 

Yoshiki's seen that look before. In the creek behind Hikaru's house, the summer Yoshiki said he was leaving.

"Tell me."

His own heartbeat fills his ears. Under Hikaru's gaze, the reasons dissolve...why was he supposed to say no?

Hikaru has to tilt his head up slightly. Still has to. Yoshiki had forgotten that. Or thought he'd forgotten. The gold flecks in his irises. The cologne's going sour with sweat now. What's left smells just like him.

A hand lifts toward his face. He almost closes his eyes.

The palm hits the wall beside his head instead.

Yoshiki moves on instinct—fisting Hikaru's jacket. To push him away or pull him closer, he doesn't know.

Hikaru's heart pounds against his ribs, faster than his own.

"Why?" His voice cracks. "Ya came here for one night. Then ya go back to—to her."

"To make sure ya don't forget." His free hand settles on Yoshiki's stomach—palm flat. Each breath pushes against Hikaru's palm. Hikaru's gaze drops to Yoshiki's mouth. "What it's supposed to feel like."

Something hot and sick rises in his throat. "Ya should leave. This isn't—"

"Isn't what?" The palm slides up. Slowly. Over his ribs. His sternum. The hollow of his throat. Thumb settling over the pulse. "Isn't right? Isn't fair?"

"Ya got a fiancée." Every word hums against Hikaru's scalding hand. His throat alive under it, vibrating. "Ya got a wedding—"

"I know what I'm supposed to do." Hikaru's grip tightens. Yoshiki's heartbeat stutters against the pressure. "But I'm here."

Yoshiki feels every line of Hikaru's body pressed flush to his. The whiskey sits warm and bitter in his tongue. Hikaru burns—outside, inside, everywhere. Beyond what alcohol could reach. Beyond shame."I'm drunk. I've been drinkin' and—"

"Tell yerself whatever ya need to." His mouth moves to Yoshiki's ear. "Tell yerself yer drunk. Tell yerself this don't mean nothin'. Tell yerself I forced ya." His teeth graze Yoshiki's earlobe. He shivers. "I don't give a fuck what story ya tell yerself after."

Yoshiki tries to push him away. His hands won't cooperate, just grip tighter. "Stop. We shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" Hikaru's other hand finds the small of his back, pulls him closer. "Shouldn't want this? Little late for that."

"Ya can't just—" Yoshiki's whole body goes tense. "I can't—"

"I'm not askin' permission." Hikaru's thumb presses into his lower lip, slips inside. "I'm tellin' ya what's gonna happen. Right now, yer gonna stop talkin'."

Yoshiki's tongue flicks against Hikaru's thumb. Muscle memory. And suddenly those men's faces blur into nothing—why he left, how to resist, all of it erased in the taste of Hikaru's skin.

Something must show on his face—some flicker of memory, of comparison—because Hikaru goes very still.

"Ya thought about me." Not a question. "When they were touchin' ya. Ya thought about me."

Yoshiki jerks his head to the side, but he can't hide it. Can't lie.

"How many, Yoshiki?" Hikaru's thumb slides deeper inside his mouth. Then out. Waiting for his response. "How many did ya let touch ya while thinkin' about me?"

The words stick in his throat. Should lie.

But the look in his eyes—

"Enough that I stopped countin'." The words rise like bile. "Should I tell ya which ones I remember?" 

Hikaru moves. Spins him around and slams him face-first against the wall.

Cool plaster against his overheated cheek. Hikaru captures both wrists in one hand, pins them overhead—fingers digging bone-deep.

"Ah—"

Hikaru's body crowds his back. Solid. Inescapable. His chest heaving, each breath scalds his nape. His body knows this weight—two years gone and his spine still curves to accommodate it.

Hikaru's free hand wraps around his throat from behind. Thumb over his pulse again—feeling how fast his heart is racing.

Then his hips press forward.

The rigid line of his cock grinds against Yoshiki's ass and—

"Fuck—" His knees buckle. He catches himself, forehead to the wall. His breath dampens the plaster. Hikaru's already moving again, rolling into him in that rhythm they learned in his childhood bedroom, through two layers of fabric. It barely feels like a barrier.

"Ya stopped countin'." Hikaru's voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. He slams forward and Yoshiki whimpers—the sound escaping before he can stop it, high and needy and humiliating.

Hikaru's mouth is at his ear. The rhythm builds, relentless. "This is what they—" His voice breaks. "Fuck ya while ya thought about me?"

Yoshiki's mouth won't work. Heat and friction and gritty plaster scraping his cheek raw.

Too much. The hard weight of his cock pressed between them. His panting breath damp against Yoshiki's nape. Sweat slicking where their bodies press together. No space left to think. No air that isn't shared. Just the ache of wanting more and Hikaru everywhere, consuming everything.

Fingers travel down from his throat—palm burning through the thin t-shirt, cotton clinging damp to his ribs. Down his stomach. Fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants, elastic snapping against his hip.

His breathing stops.

Inside. Skin on skin.

"God—" His hips jerk forward into the touch, then back, grinding against Hikaru's cock. Trapped between. He can't—he needs—

Hikaru wraps his hand around him and squeezes.

The moan that tears from his throat is obscene. His thoughts scatter—nothing left but the sensation of Hikaru's heat, the bite of plaster on his cheek, the throb of his cock in Hikaru's fist.

Hikaru's fingers still crushing his wrists overhead. Tendons stretched taut, shoulders screaming. The hot weight of Hikaru's erection pressed against him through denim and cotton.

Hikaru strokes him—slow, firm pulls. His hips haven't stopped—Hikaru rock-hard against him, precome soaking through denim. Hikaru's teeth scrape down his nape.

Every sound magnifies in the tiny apartment—the wet slide of Hikaru's palm, their ragged breathing, the obscene rhythm of Hikaru grinding against him.

"Fuck—Hikaru—" 

Hikaru bites down—junction of neck and shoulder, hard enough to sting. His cock jerks in Hikaru's fist. More slick. He's going to come and Hikaru's going to feel it—feel exactly how wrecked he is.

"Were ya thinkin' about me?" Hikaru's hips grind harder, more erratic now. "When they were fuckin' ya—"

Yoshiki's teeth sink into his lower lip. Hard.

Won't say it.

Won't—

His hips buck into Hikaru's hand. A broken sound tears out. Copper floods his mouth.

Hikaru goes still.

His hand stops moving.

Yoshiki can hear both of them breathing. Can hear himself—ragged, uneven. Can hear Hikaru thinking.

Then—he releases his wrists. The blood rushes back, pins and needles shooting down to his fingertips. His hands drop, boneless. He braces against the wall, legs shaking.

Hikaru steps back.

The pressure is gone and his knees nearly give out. He catches himself against the wall. His cock throbs, straining obscenely against his sweatpants. He can feel the wetness—cold now, seeping through to his thighs, the dark stain impossible to hide.

"Turn around."

His hands tremble against the wall. Forehead still pressed to it. If he turns around, Hikaru will see his face. Will see exactly what this is doing to him.

His body turns anyway.

Hikaru looks wrecked. Hair destroyed, white strands sticking up at odd angles. Face flushed deep pink, the color bleeding down his neck. His jeans wet where he was grinding against Yoshiki, dark with it.

They stare at each other.

He feels his heartbeat everywhere—ears, wrists, cock. The wet stain cooling in his sweatpants. The blood on his lip.

Hikaru's looking at all of it.

Hikaru's eyes drop to his mouth.

To his lower lip—swollen, split slightly where he bit down. A thin line of blood and spit at the corner.

"Ya won't say it." He sounds disappointed. Almost hurt.

Hikaru closes the distance between them. Not the predatory advance from before—this is something else. Deliberate. Careful. Yoshiki can see the flutter of his pulse at the hollow of his throat. Hikaru's nervous too.

Fingers cup his face. The touch is gentle in a way that makes Yoshiki's heart ache more than the roughness did. Thumb finds the mole under his right eye—the one Hikaru always kissed first. Then down to his left cheek. Then to his chin. The third.

The ritual complete.

But Hikaru doesn't stop. His thumb slips to Yoshiki's split lip, presses inside. Finding the fourth mole—the one hidden inside his lower lip. The one that was never part of the ritual before. The one Hikaru only discovered later, in private.

"Get on yer knees."

The words don't register at first. His brain stalls, trying to reconcile the tenderness of Hikaru's touch with what he's asking.

"Show me what ya did for them." Hikaru's finger lingers on the fourth mole. "And I'll show ya why none of 'em were enough."

It's not a request.

Yoshiki should say no. Should push him away. Should remember the woman in the blue dress, the wedding next month, the fact that tomorrow Hikaru will be gone and Yoshiki will still be here in this apartment with nothing but the memory of this.

His knees bend.

The floor bites cold through his sweatpants, nothing like the tatami where they used to—

He looks up.

Hikaru's beautiful like this. The way he's looking at Yoshiki—hungry and reverent at once, like he can't decide whether to devour him or worship him. Flush bleeding down from his cheeks to his neck. White brows drawn together, that crease between them Yoshiki used to smooth. Lips parted, breath coming fast. The Indou heir that crossed half a country to bend Yoshiki to his feet. 

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then Hikaru's hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the shortened strands. Not pulling. Just holding him there, thumb brushing his temple like he's memorizing the shape of Yoshiki's skull.

His other hand cups Yoshiki's jaw, tilts his face up. Thumb under his chin, holding him in place.

 "Mine," Hikaru says quietly.

Yoshiki's hands reach for Hikaru's belt. His fingers fumble, thick and stupid with desire—the prong slips once, twice, before finally catching. He pulls the belt free, unbuttons, unzips. The fabric parts.

Hikaru's cock strains against his boxer. The dark fabric slick at the tip, outline clear.

Yoshiki looks up. Meets Hikaru's eyes.

Leans forward. Presses his lips to the tip. Barely contact. A kiss.

"Mm." The sound vibrates through cotton. Soft. 

Hikaru's hand tightens in his hair. The tenderness from moments ago dawns behind his gaze.

Yoshiki goes: not willingly, not exactly, but inevitably. Like gravity. Like drowning. His hands reach for Hikaru's waistband.

He's done this dozens of times in the last two years. On his knees in club bathrooms, in strangers' beds, in the back seats of cars. Different men, different hands, different voices saying his name wrong. All of them substitutes. All of them insufficient. But his hands have never shaken like this. His mouth has never gone dry and wet at the same time, saliva pooling under his tongue in anticipation.

 He hooks his fingers into the waistband. Pulls down.

Hikaru's cock springs free and slaps up into his belly.

He just looks for a moment.

It's the same. Thick and flushed, curving slightly to the left, a vein running along the underside that Yoshiki used to trace with his tongue until Hikaru begged. Already slick from the grinding, precome smearing the shaft. The scent hits him—musk and sweat. Precome beads at the slit. Yoshiki's stomach clenches with something between hunger and grief.

Two years.

Two years of trying to find this in strangers' pants. Two years of closing his eyes and pretending. Two years of failing.

"What're ya waitin' for?" Hikaru's voice is strained, but there's an edge to it—impatience, or maybe fear.

Yoshiki looks up at him. Meets those silver eyes shining with lust. "Thought ya wanted to know what they got." The words come out steadier than expected. Challenging. "Should I show ya?"

Hikaru's expression goes blank. He doesn't breathe. Blade-sharp words, sinking in. Hikaru's hand fists in his hair.

"Hands." Hikaru's voice shakes. "Behind yer back. Now."

Yoshiki's stomach drops. Cold sweat prickles down his spine. His cock twitches—rigid, aching.

 "Do it," Hikaru says, "or I leave."

His body responds before his pride can interfere—hands behind his back, wrists crossing. Vulnerable. Exposed.

 Hikaru's hand fists in his hair. "Now open yer mouth."

Yoshiki's jaw tightens. He doesn't move.

"I said—" Pain lances through his scalp. Burning. Sharp. His mouth waters. He hates it. Hates how his body reacts. "Open. Yer. Mouth."

Yoshiki holds his gaze for one defiant moment—sees Hikaru just as ruined, just as lost—and then he opens.

Hikaru pushes in.

The taste floods his mouth—salt and musk and bitter precome. Yoshiki's world stops. Finally. Finally.Then Hikaru shoves past his lips, past his tongue, hitting the back of his throat in one brutal thrust. Yoshiki gags—can't help it—eyes watering, throat working around him, swallowing reflexively even though there's nothing to swallow yet.

Hikaru doesn't pull back.

"This what ya want?" He rolls his hips, fucking shallow into Yoshiki's mouth. "This what all those other guys gave ya?"

Arms crossed behind him, unable to touch, push or pull. Completely at Hikaru's mercy. Can only take it, drool sliding down his chin, breath whistling through his nose.

Hikaru pulls out.

Yoshiki gasps—one ragged breath. Mouth still open, swollen and wet, reflexively trying to follow. Trying to take it back in. Leans into empty air, seeking.

Hikaru doesn't put it back in. Instead, he rubs the head against Yoshiki's cheek. Marking him with it.

 "Here's how this works." He traces Yoshiki's jawline with his cock, dragging precome along the bone. His foot slides forward. The arch curves against Yoshiki's cock through damp fabric. Wet cotton clinging, molding to the shape of him. Heat radiates through the point of contact, Hikaru's warmth mixing with Yoshiki's own. Rounded, firm pressure right against the head. The contact borders on painful. Yoshiki's breath stutters. "Ya don't touch yerself unless I say so." Hikaru's toes flex, finding the ridge and pressing. Slow, cruel circles that make Yoshiki's hips twitch helplessly.

He stares, can't look away—Hikaru's cock so close to his mouth, glistening wet, just out of reach. His tongue presses against his lower lip, aching to taste it again.

Hikaru notices. Brings his cock to Yoshiki's lips, rests it against them. "This is all ya get. My foot on yer cock while ya choke on me." Presses forward slightly, teasing entrance. "That enough for ya?"

Yoshiki's mouth opens, seeking—

 Hikaru pulls back an inch. "Or should I take this away too?"

Yoshiki's hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking anything. The rough texture of Hikaru's sock catches against wet fabric, and Yoshiki whimpers. His mouth hangs open, desperate. Pleading without words. Spit and precome sliding on his lower lip. His cock throbs under Hikaru's sole, adding to the wet patch.

 "Say it."

"Please." He doesn't decide to say it. His body decides for him. Words torn from somewhere deeper than shame. "Please, Hikaru."

 Hikaru's expression shifts—something dark and satisfied crossing his face.

He feeds his cock back in.

He sets a rhythm. Every time it hits the back of Yoshiki's throat, his heel presses down, trapping Yoshiki's erection, pressing it into the muscle of his thigh.

Throat full, cock trapped. Brutal. Relentless. Yoshiki can feel both: throat stretched around Hikaru's cock, his own cock crushed under Hikaru's heel. Pain and pleasure dissolve together. Thought scatters into what Hikaru's doing to him. Nothing else exists.

The damp fabric makes the friction slicker, the seams rougher against sensitive skin, Hikaru's heel bearing down with each thrust, grinding Yoshiki's cock like he wants to crush it entirely.

Every thrust tears sounds from his throat, thick and wet and desperate, between ragged gasps for air.

He can hear himself—the messy, obscene squelch of spit around Hikaru's cock, the soft slap of balls against his chin with every deep push. The sounds of being used.

"Ya hear that?" Hikaru's breathing goes shallow. "Yer throat squeezin' around me every time ya gag. That wet sound when I pull out. Fuck—" His arch works in small circles, rocking against Yoshiki's cock, making his thighs shake. "Ya sound like ya were made for this."

His hips rock forward, trying to grind against Hikaru's foot, chasing the pressure. He's so hard it hurts, more precome soaking through the already-wet fabric, and Hikaru can probably feel it—the damp heat, the way Yoshiki's cock pulses with every heartbeat.

"Look at ya." Hikaru's voice is raspy, amused. "Droolin' on my cock like ya been starvin'. Have ya? Have ya been starvin' for me, Yoshiki?"

Yoshiki moans around him—a broken, humiliated sound.

"All those other dicks ya sucked—" Hikaru's thrusts get faster, sloppier. "Did any of 'em feel like this? Did any of 'em make ya this needy?"

Yoshiki shakes his head minutely, careful not to dislodge the cock in his throat.

"That's right." Hikaru's thumb traces his hollowed cheek, feeling himself through the thin skin. "Because ya were always mine. Even when ya were on yer knees for someone else—ya were thinkin' about me. Weren't ya?"

Yoshiki's eyes sting. He blinks hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Won't let Hikaru see how right he is. 

Hikaru notices. Of course he notices.

"Still fightin' me?" His toes dig in mercilessly, and Yoshiki whimpers around his cock. "We'll see how long that lasts."

He pulls out just long enough to let Yoshiki gasp for air. One ragged breath, then two. Then shoves back in, deeper this time. Yoshiki's nose presses against Hikaru's pelvis, pubic hair scratching his face, and his world narrows to three points of contact:

Hikaru's cock stretching his throat.

Hikaru's foot controlling his pleasure.

Hikaru's fist in his hair, controlling the angle, the depth.

"Gonna come," Hikaru warns, breath hitching. "Gonna come down yer throat. Ya gonna swallow it?"

Yoshiki looks up at him through tears clinging to his lashes—at the flush spreading across pale skin. At the white hair falling damp across his forehead. He meets Hikaru's eyes.

Nods.

Hikaru's hips stutter, rhythm breaking, and then he's coming—the first spurt hitting the back of Yoshiki's throat, thick and hot and salt-bitter in a way that floods him with sense-memory. He swallows convulsively, gulping around each pulse. Two years searching for this taste and he never forgot, never stopped wanting exactly this. There's so much—Hikaru's been waiting too, been starving too—and some of it escapes, leaking from the corners of Yoshiki's mouth, dripping down his chin to mix with the spit already there. Hikaru groans at the sight, hips twitching through the aftershocks, feeding him every last drop.

 When he finally pulls out, a string of come and saliva stretches between his softening cock and Yoshiki's swollen lips, catching the light before it breaks.

Yoshiki gasps for air. His lips are puffy and abused, his chin a mess of spit and come, and he looks ruined.

He gave Hikaru everything—and it's still not enough. He's still hard, still desperate, still completely at Hikaru's mercy.

"I need—" The word breaks from him. His hips rock uselessly—Hikaru's foot gone, leaving him with nothing but his own denied need. "Hikaru, please, I need to come—"

 "Not yet." Hikaru's hand cups his jaw, thumb tracing his swollen lower lip. "Ya don't get to come 'til I say so. Understand?"

 Yoshiki's whole body trembles with the effort of holding back. "That ain't fair—"

 "None of this is fair." Hikaru moves, offering his hand.

Yoshiki takes it—legs shaking so badly he nearly collapses. Hikaru catches him, one arm around his waist, pulling him close. Holds him there.

For a moment, they just stare at eachother. Yoshiki wrecked, trembling. Hikaru still standing.

Hikaru's thumb swipes across his chin—collecting spit and come. He licks it clean.

 Then he kisses him.

His hand fists in Yoshiki's hair, angling his head back, and his tongue pushes past swollen lips. Tastes salt and bitter and himself in Yoshiki's mouth. He doesn't pull back from the mess. Doesn't hesitate. Just kisses him like he's trying to devour him, climb inside, claim every inch.

 Yoshiki's hands come up—clutching at Hikaru's shoulders, his jacket, anything to stay upright. The kiss makes his head spin, makes his neglected cock throb. Makes him want to sob because it's not enough. Two years in Tokyo and nothing changed. He's still here. Still Hikaru's.

"Futon." 

One word. Yoshiki's legs barely hold him as he crawls the few feet across his apartment. His legs burn. His cock drags against damp fabric with every movement—oversensitive, aching. He collapses face-down on the futon, chest heaving.

Hikaru's weight settles behind him. Hands on his hips, pulling at his sweatpants. Yoshiki doesn't resist. Doesn't have it in him. The fabric peels away, clinging to wet skin before finally releasing.

Yoshiki doesn't move. Stays face-down, ass in the air.

Behind him, fabric rustles. Hikaru undressing. Then silence.

Yoshiki can't see, but the weight of Hikaru's gaze burns his skin.

Hands spread him open. No warning. No preparation except—

The first touch of his tongue makes Yoshiki's hips jerk. Too sensitive. Too much. He buries his face in the pillows, trying to muffle the keen that tears from his throat.

Hikaru doesn't stop. Licks slow, deliberate circles. Spit slicks down, obscene and wet. Messy—Hikaru was always messy. Ramen on his chin. Rice on his cheek. Yoshiki used to tease him about it. The memory cuts through, sharp and bittersweet. 

Hikaru pulls back. Yoshiki hears him gathering saliva, that obscene sound. Knows what's coming.

It lands hot. Direct on his hole. He bites into the pillow.

Hikaru's fingers follow, working the spit in. Then his tongue returns. Drags over the rim, thorough, before pressing inside. The muscle gives, and the soft heat of Hikaru's tongue breaches him, opening him. Hikaru groans, low and hungry, the sound vibrating through sensitive flesh.

"Fuckin' perfect," Hikaru mutters against wet skin. His breath hot.

Then his tongue returns, fucking deeper. Yoshiki can't—the sensation erases thought. Just the heat, the pressure, the way Hikaru opens him with nothing but his mouth.

"Hikaru—" The name fractures. Desperate. He doesn't know what he's asking for. Stop. More. Something.

His cock twitches against the futon, untouched and leaking. Every time Hikaru's tongue pushes deeper, his hips move forward. Grinding into fabric. Chasing friction he shouldn't need, shouldn't want.

It's too much. He's been on edge too long. Hikaru's tongue fucks into him and Yoshiki's vision blurs. His whole body locks up.

He comes.

Untouched. Just from Hikaru's mouth on his hole. The orgasm rips through him, shameful and overwhelming. He shakes apart, gasping into the pillow while his cock pulses against white sheets.

Hikaru doesn't give him time to recover. Flips him over while Yoshiki's still boneless, trembling, riding the aftershocks. His cock lies spent against his stomach, wet and sensitive.

"Look at ya." Hikaru's voice is rough. Satisfied. His thumb drags through the mess on Yoshiki's stomach, spreading it. "Came just from my mouth. Didn't even need me inside ya."

Yoshiki turns his face away. Can't meet his eyes. The shame burns hotter than the orgasm did.

Hikaru catches his jaw, forces him to look. His other hand wraps around Yoshiki's softening cock—too sensitive, bordering on painful. "Yer body knows."

He squeezes. Yoshiki whimpers.

"Say it."

"Yours." His throat closes around the word. Barely audible. "I'm yours."

Hikaru's pupils blow wide. His breath catches. "Yeah. Ya are."

Hikaru pulls him up, arranges him over his lap. Yoshiki's limbs don't cooperate—boneless, wrung out—but Hikaru positions him anyway, thighs spread wide.

"Look at me."

Yoshiki does. Hikaru beneath him—white lashes stark against flushed cheeks, eyes desperate in a way Yoshiki's never seen. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, sticking up wild where Yoshiki grabbed it when they were kissing.

One hand steadies his hip, the other guides his cock.

The first press makes Yoshiki's breath stop. The head—thick, blunt—pushes past the rim. Already open from Hikaru's tongue but his body still resists, muscle clenching before it gives.

He sinks down inch by inch. Feels Hikaru's cock curve inside him, finding the angle that makes his breath stutter. When he's fully seated, air won't come.

The stretch burns from the inside out. Every nerve stripped raw, hyper-aware.

Hikaru throbs inside him, thick and insistent. So full it borders on pain.

"Move." Hikaru's voice is strained.

He lifts his hips, sinks back down. The slide of Hikaru inside him—the specific weight, the curve, the way he fills the exact space Yoshiki's been empty of.

Not a stranger. Not pretending. Hikaru.

His vision blurs. Tears spill over, humiliating, tracking down his face.

He tries to move again but his thighs shake, gasps turning to sobs. "I can't—" His voice breaks. "It's too much, I can't—"

But he doesn't stop. Keeps moving even as tears stream down. And in the space of a single breath, the overwhelm shifts—like something slotting into place after being wrong for so long.

Yoshiki follows the rhythm, finds an angle that makes his breath catch for a different reason. The drag inside him builds heat low in his belly despite his spent cock. Not arousal exactly. Something deeper. A feeling that makes his heart ache as much as his body.

He rolls his hips, taking Hikaru deeper. A whimper escapes him—choked, caught in his throat. His hands find Hikaru's shoulders, gripping for balance, for anchor, for bone and muscle while everything else comes undone.

"Yoshiki—" Hikaru's voice is strained. His hips cant up slightly, meeting Yoshiki's movement.

The rhythm builds between them—rise and fall, rise and fall. Tears drying on his cheeks but his body moving with purpose now, chasing a feeling he can't name. Connection. Completion. The feeling of being whole after being fractured.

Yoshiki's movements slow. Exhaustion creeping in, thighs burning, sweat sliding down his back. He tries to keep the pace but his body won't cooperate anymore.

Hikaru's hands tighten on his hips. Stopping him. Holding him still, fully seated, connected.

The stillness makes everything sharper. The stretch. The heat. Hikaru filling him completely.

"Yoshiki."

He looks down. Hikaru beneath him—face flushed, silver eyes bright with unshed tears, expression so naked it makes Yoshiki feel like he's been gutted. Like every careful wall he spent building in his mind just collapsed.

Raw. Vulnerable. Nothing like the polished heir who walked through his door tonight.

"I love ya."

The words are quiet. Kansai-rough. Devastatingly honest.

Fresh tears well up—he thought he was done crying. His body trembles, clenching around Hikaru involuntarily.

Speech fails him. Words lodge in his throat, won't come. So he leans down instead, presses his forehead to Hikaru's. Their breath mingles. Yoshiki's tears drop onto Hikaru's face.

"I love ya," Hikaru says again. Softer. Like he's been holding it in the entire time they were apart and now he can't stop. "Always have. Always will."

Yoshiki's fingers card through Hikaru's hair without thinking. Find the spot at his nape, scratch lightly. Hikaru makes a sound—the same small satisfied hum he always made. 

Yoshiki kisses him. Desperate. Messy. Tasting salt and all that time spent wanting. His body moves without permission—a helpless roll of his hips, taking Hikaru deeper. Not breaking the kiss. Not letting go.

The movement undoes something in Hikaru. His grip on Yoshiki's hips turns bruising, holding him down. His whole body goes taut.

"Wait I—" It sounds like a warning. A plea.

Yoshiki doesn't stop. Keeps rolling his hips, slow and deliberate, taking everything Hikaru has to give. Kisses him through it.

Hikaru comes with a sound caught between a gasp and Yoshiki's name. His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open. Buried deep. His hips move up, grinding deeper, and Yoshiki feels it—the pulse, the heat, Hikaru spilling inside him.

Claiming him. Filling him. Trying to leave proof that won't fade.

Hikaru's hands loosen. His body goes slack, shivering slightly. He pulls Yoshiki down against his chest, arms wrapping tight around him.

The cologne is gone—fucked away into sweat and sheets. What's left is just him. Clean sweat and cedar, the scent from before Tokyo and designer suits. Two years of strangers' chemical smell. This is just right.

Yoshiki breathes him in. Tries to memorize it—the exact note of cedar, the warmth, how real it is. Knowing it's temporary. Knowing morning comes.

Neither of them moves to separate. Still connected. Still joined.

Yoshiki's awareness narrows. The world shrinks to Hikaru's heartbeat against his ear, the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of arms wrapped around him.

His body feels wrung out. Hollow. Like crying emptied the ache he was carrying since Hikaru left his side. The futon is damp beneath them—sweat and spit and come and tears—but neither of them moves.

Hikaru's hand traces up and down his spine. Soothing. Yoshiki's eyes drift closed.

He should say something. Should ask what happens now. Should—

But exhaustion drags him under before he can finish the thought.

The last thing he's aware of is Hikaru's lips pressing against his temple. Soft. Lingering. And then nothing.