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Akahito has infuriatingly beautiful hands.

They’re large, but not excessively so; there’s a certain elegance in the movements of his long, yet slim fingers, in the way they curl around his brush and let it rest against the calluses born of over two decades spent holding all kinds of writing implements. There’s a beauty mark at the base of his thumb, and a fading paper cut on the pad of his index finger. Kuronushi remembers when he got it just yesterday, when Akahito suddenly inhaled and raised the offended finger to frown at it in mild annoyance. He also remembers fighting the urge to reach Akahito under his maple tree, take the finger in his hand and suck on the wound, just to watch the unflappable poet squirm.

But he didn’t, of course. Now, too, Kuronushi redirects his gaze from Akahito to the papers in front of him, though in doing so he accidentally stumbles over the eyes of Sumizome, sitting on the engawa a short distance away from him. She spares him the smallest quirk of an eyebrow before returning to her work, leaving Kuronushi to frown at her pale bangs. Aoi no Okina and Suikou have been either too oblivious to notice the resentment Kuronushi has been nursing for the other man, or smart enough not to bring attention to it; Sumizome, however, has not been shy about making it clear that she has noticed, and that she’s watching him. She’s going to get herself into trouble eventually, but as that moment hasn’t yet come, Kuronushi quietly dismisses the thought.

His worry right now should be finishing this infuriating poem. No matter how he looks at it, he simply can't seem to make it work — there’s always some odd word that makes him frown, a clumsy line, a half-finished thought. He supposes the problem is that he is genuinely not in the mood to write, but the day they’ll present their works to the Shogun is fast approaching; if he wants to surpass Akahito, he needs to get to work and achieve a kind of perfection that the other man could never hope to reach.

In theory, it should not be too difficult: Kuronushi has a better understanding of the formal elements of poetry, has more experience, and is far more driven. Akahito seems happy to simply put his thoughts into (admittedly beautiful) verses, but Kuronushi has always had a hunger for excellence that Akahito sorely lacks. It should be easy, then, to surpass him through hard work and sheer determination.

It should be so easy. But the truth is that–

“Good afternoon."

Kuronushi very nearly breaks his brush. He plasters a smile on his lips and tilts his head upwards, inwardly bristling when he meets Akahito’s placid eyes. “Good afternoon, Akahito. Did you need something?”

“I finished a new poem.” The man shifts minutely, pressing the pad of his thumb against the edge of the page he’s holding close to his chest. “I would like to ask for your opinion, Kuronushi-san.”

Kuronushi fights to keep his expression plain. The gall of this man! “Mine?” he replies through gritted teeth, his smile tense on his lips. “I don’t see why my opinion should matter, Akahito-sensei. Everyone agrees you’re the better poet of the two, isn’t that right?”

“As I’ve told you before, there’s no need to be so formal," Akahito replies with a tilt of his head, his smile softening. “We are peers… equals. And regardless, I happen to disagree with your detractors.”

Kuronushi’s smile grows and grows, until it’s a sharp and bitter thing. “And that’s why you’re a free-spirited poet and not a critic,” he says, though in truth he’s thinking something closer to how dare you pretend you’re being genuine when you’re just throwing my failures in my face.

Akahito’s smile falters, as if the thought of Kuronushi taking offense to his condescension hadn't even crossed his mind. Kuronushi still hasn’t been able to tell whether he’s genuinely this oblivious or he’s just toying with him. “I… nevermind, then. Sumizome, could I bother you to…?”

Sumizome is quick to agree with that sweet smile of hers, so Akahito quietly shifts away to hand her his poem. Their hands brush as he does so, and Kuronushi’s stomach churns when, to his chagrin, Sumizome begins to read out loud.

“The autumn wind blows chill this morn on the hill of Sanu, where you should be passing: my garb I’d lend you, if I could. Why, Akahito, this is beautiful.” Sumizome smiles at him, her eyes shining like ice under the sun. “I can truly feel the longing that inspired you to write this.”

Akahito ducks his head at her praise, and his cheeks swiftly gain color. “Thank you, Sumizome. That means so much.”

Kuronushi averts his eyes. How unbecoming… Do they think they’re being subtle? That no one would notice?

It all fills him with an overwhelming sense of bitterness. Akahito just has it all, doesn’t he? He’s lauded as one of the best poets of their generation, praised for his handsome face and gentle demeanor, and he’s even won the love of, arguably, the most sought-after woman of the country. And what is Kuronushi in comparison? A poet whose verses are too dismal, a striking beauty wasted on an offensive personality. An unlovable misanthrope. These are all things that have been said about him. The fact that he agrees with them doesn’t make them sting any less.

In a fit of anger, he crumples his poem and brings brush to blank paper. His hand moves in a blur, the tip of his brush dragging clumsily in jagged lines.

The spring showers

Falling, are they tears?

Cherry blossoms

Scattered and unmourned-

There’s no one so hard hearted.

His hand protests when he lets the brush drop — he was gripping it too tightly. He subtly moves his fingers in an effort to relax them, his eyes jumping across the poem as he rereads it. The calligraphy is atrocious, and the contents…

…Disgusting. He rips the page in half, then shreds it into smaller pieces and throws them to the ground.

“Kuronushi-san?”

Akahito’s soft voice grates like nails on a chalkboard. Kuronushi shoots to his feet. “I’m done for today.”

“Are you al–”

Before the man can finish his question, Kuronushi has already stormed away and slammed the sliding door closed.

He hates that man. He truly hates him with every fiber of his being.

He has never despised anyone this strongly. There are people he’s found irritating, sure, even ones he wished he could kill with his bare hands — but Akahito? Akahito infuriates him in a way he never thought possible. Even the smallest of glances ignites a fury within Kuronushi that threatens to burn everything to the ground, to consume and consume until nothing is left. Kuronushi is a slave to it. When they first met, it was a milder thing — short-lived admiration that turned into unease, irritation, dejection. A burning in the back of his throat, a tremor that overtook his hands and breath whenever Akahito so much as smiled at him. But then Kuronushi grew to understand how utterly inferior he is to Akahito, how unreachable that golden heart truly is, and that feeling sharpened, spiraled, and now it leaves him with this burning want to wrap his hands around Akahito’s throat and bring him to his knees. He’d force Akahito to bow to him, press his head to the ground and kiss Kuronushi’s feet, to utterly debase himself and submit to the man everyone considers Akahito’s lesser. He’d make him beg, beg until his smooth voice grew husky and breathless, push him to the ground and…

And…

Kuronushi pauses. And what?

…The image that comes to him, a logical conclusion to his train of thought, is so egregious that Kuronushi physically recoils. His hands curl into fists over the smooth surface of his desk, and he crosses his legs tightly in an effort to chase away the heat suddenly pooling between them. Unfortunately for him, it achieves the opposite effect. Kuronushi feels a thrill rush down his spine as the idea grows into a fantasy, as he wonders how Akahito would look like helplessly splayed out under him, hair undone and messy, cheeks flushed, his crimson eyes burning with shame and need alike. And oh, what would he sound like? Would he pant, whine, moan? Would he be loud and unrestrained or shy and soft, would he bite back his whimpers or scream Kuronushi’s name at the top of his lungs?

With a trembling hand, Kuronushi spreads his legs and presses down between them. The fabric is already growing wet. And it’s wrong, it’s shameful, to fantasize about his nemesis in such a way, but… but no, this would be a way to win against Akahito, wouldn’t it? Even if he can’t outdo him in poetry, he could always hold the reins in bed. He could humiliate him, make him admit that he is nothing in comparison to Kuronushi, that everyone is wrong about him, that Kuronushi is the one who deserves all the praise and recognition, and although neither of the two would believe it it would feel so good.

Would it feel as good to feel his tongue against him, he wonders as he presses down on himself and clenches his thighs around his hand. And what about his hands, oh, those beautiful hands of his, fondling his breasts or pushing inside of him… what would those calluses feel like as they pressed against his walls, or furiously rubbed his clit, just as he's doing now… And what about his length–

A jolt of white-hot pleasure courses through Kuronushi and makes him go limp, his forehead thudding against the desk. He curls up on himself, panting, his thighs tensing as they begin to tremble. “Ah… Akahito…”

Kuronushi… Kuronushi would ride him, he decides as he fumbles with his clothes and finally plunges a hand inside his underwear. He’d hold Akahito down by the wrists, leaning in just enough to let their lips brush but not enough to actually make contact. He’d be slow at first, teasing, waiting for Akahito to snap; and then, when the man finally cracked and the first plea fell from his lips, Kuronushi would set a brutal pace, bouncing on his cock and watching him squirm under him. He’d draw it all out as long as possible, watch pleasure completely overcome Akahito and swallow the last of his pride; and he wouldn’t stop at one, no, he’d keep going until his thighs burned and his head swam with pleasure, until Akahito gave him all he could and passed out from sheer exhaustion. Yes, he’d love to have him just like that, completely at his mercy, begging and pleading with tears in his eyes, his sweat-slicked body arching as he screamed Kuronushi’s name and–

Kuronushi’s body locks up, his mouth drops, and he screams. “Ah– ah, Akahito…!”

The name tastes so sweet on his dry tongue. Kuronushi can’t help but repeat it, over and over, his voice dropping to a quiet whimper as he chases the aftershocks of pleasure. Sweat wets his hair and beads against the desk’s surface, and his legs slowly relax when he finally draws his soaked hand away. He feels dizzy.

…And, once he finally regains his wits, horribly ashamed. The realization creeps up on him slowly, akin to a predator who knows its prey can’t escape. In the same way, Kuronushi can’t hide from the sheer humiliation that soon burns his cheeks and constricts his chest in a death grip. He jumps to his feet, almost falling straight to the ground as his weak legs struggle to readjust, and hurries for his private bathroom — yet no matter how much he washes his hands and face with ice-cold water, he can’t seem to douse the inferno of pleasure and shame raging inside his chest.

How disgusting. His hands curl around the edges of the basin, his eyes staring darkly into the mirror. How utterly pathetic. He will admit that he’s had unsavory thoughts about Akahito from time to time, but to indulge in them in such a way is so disgusting in retrospect that he feels sick to his stomach. He raises a hand to his scalding hot face, glaring at the blush sitting high on his cheeks.

This man is causing him far too much grief. It’s incredible, really, how much worse his life has gotten since meeting him — how his already shaky confidence was utterly obliterated the first time he read one of Akahito’s poems, how every soft gaze of his seems to giggle gleefully as it sets Kuronushi’s body on fire. He so badly wishes he could set all these inconvenient feelings to the side and see him only as a colleague, as is the case for the other Kasen, yet he doubts he’ll ever be able to reach that point. No, every time he looks him in the eyes, Kuronushi will be reminded not only of his own incompetence in comparison to Akahito’s brilliance, but also of this night — of the pleasure he indulged in, the fantasies he let himself get lost in. There is no point in trying to avoid him, either; all five Kasen are so kindly allowed to live in a private dwelling just off of the palace’s main building, so he will run into him eventually, whether he wants to or not. Kuronushi has never been able to escape that deceptively piercing gaze of Akahito’s, but now? Now it can only get worse. He can’t help but wonder, perhaps foolishly, whether Akahito will somehow be able to tell, whether he’ll see the shame and guilt in Kuronushi’s eyes or the restlessness waging war on his heart. And if he were able to tell, how would it make him feel? Akahito may seem like a gentle person, yet Kuronushi can’t think of a reaction other than disgust were he to learn that someone like Kuronushi thinks of his body in such a way.

How… how could Kuronushi possibly face him? Every inch of his body rebels at the mere thought. He drops his face in his hands and lets out a long-suffering groan, barely resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall. He’d genuinely rather die than ever meet that man’s gaze again. Maybe he should. Wouldn’t that be such an incredible way to go? Killed by his own shame and lust, doomed to be remembered as the eternal second that put an end to his miserable life for no apparent reason.

Would Akahito even care? The thought of him shrugging Kuronushi’s death off makes a pit form in the man’s stomach. But then again, why should he care? It’s not like Kuronushi is important to him. And if it’s true that the opposite of love is not hatred, but indifference, wouldn’t it stand to reason that the opposite is also true? That Kuronushi’s loathing will always be met by a cold shoulder and unconcerned eyes? It’s been the case so far, so why would Akahito’s disinterest not follow him in death?

A small part of Kuronushi is aware that he’s overreacting, yet he can’t find it in him to stop. He begins to pace, hand pressed to his lips, feet carelessly dragging against the floor. Is there a way out of this? He’s always taken pleasure in the idea of surpassing Akahito and slamming his victory in his face, to force him to look at Kuronushi and see him as his better, someone to chase after in the same way he’s been chasing Akihito's shadow in an effort to tear him down his throne. Yet would that bring him the same satisfaction now? Would he be able to gloat, or would looking into Akahito’s defeated eyes remind him of this night, and what he wishes he could do to him?

Is that even possible? Could Kuronushi ever hope to surpass him? He wants to believe that he will, but even his undying determination has been dwindling as of late. What if it takes years? Decades? What is he supposed to do in the meantime, steam in his failures and get himself off to the fantasy of what he will never have? No, that’s unacceptable. He needs to get the advantage now, to have something he can cling to in order to feel better about himself. He needs to be able to look at Akahito and heave a sigh of relief, knowing that he’s won, even if only the battle and not the war. But how is he supposed to do that? There’s less than a week left before they’ll have to present their works, how could he possibly come up with something worthy in such a short amount of time?

Could he win in another way? Maybe by… seducing Akahito?

…No. No, absolutely not. Still, perhaps achieving his first victory in a more underhanded way wouldn’t be so horrible after all. He’s sure Akahito would preach about fairness and pride, about winning fair and square, about how a victory that was obtained through unsavory means would be no victory at all, but he’d be wrong. As long as Kuronushi relies solely on his own wits to overcome him, would that not prove that he’s, if nothing else, at least more cunning than Akahito? Would that not also be a worthy victory?

Yes… he likes this idea. He comes to a halt in front of the mirror, staring himself down with narrowed eyes. If he could find a way to get rid of Akahito… a non-lethal way, that is. He doesn’t want their war-game to end too soon, he wants to leave the door open for more victories and he certainly can't do that if he’s competing against a corpse. No, he wants Akahito to be able to witness said victories, wants to see the moment a spark goes off inside of him and he decides that Kuronushi is worthy of his attention and efforts after all. That he wants to reach him. That he sees him.

Yes… if Akahito could only look at Kuronushi with the same fervor that Kuronushi feels, then it would all be worth it.

On the night before the presentation, Kuronushi slips outside his room. His socked feet soundlessly pad along the hallway’s wooden floor, and his signature dark clothes help him blend into every lightless corner. Not that there’s any need to hide, the place is deserted: Aoi no Okina announced he’d be going to bed early, Suikou went out into the city to “look for some last-minute inspiration” (read: to get drunk) and Akahito and Sumizome are… together. He saw the red-clothed poet slip into Sumizome’s room a short while ago, though he didn’t bother sticking around; there’s only really one thing they could be doing, after all, and he’d rather die than be subjected to even a single sigh. Just the thought of Akahito–

Enough. Kuronushi hurriedly reaches the door to Akahito’s room, hesitating only briefly before slipping inside. The room is as he expected it: neat, clean, with several papers and notebooks stacked on a desk and a few trinkets here and there — flower pots, rocks and pebbles, a couple of western books. He’s tempted to snoop around for a while, but ultimately makes a beeline for the desk, where the collection of poems Akahito will present tomorrow is already staring up at him, the sheets carefully piled up and tied together with a neat little ribbon. From his sleeve, Kuronushi extracts the paper he prepared beforehand, one where he wrote down, in a perfect imitation of Akahito’s soft and flowing calligraphy, the almost word-for-word replica of an older poem. He intends to slip it somewhere in the middle of the existing pile — somewhere Akahito is unlikely to check before turning his work in. He has no doubts that the Shogun will recognize this poem, one that is not outrageously famous but also far from obscure; the obvious conclusion will be that Akahito stumbled upon that poem, plagiarized it, and then had the gall to assume no one would notice him turning it in with his original works. A serious crime, though not one grave enough to be executed for. If he independently published it as his own he would likely receive a hefty fine and be expelled from the Kasen as punishment, but presenting it to the Shogun? Tricking her? He’ll almost certainly be exiled.

Finally, he’ll be able to gain the upper hand. Kuronushi allows himself a moment to gloat, letting out a soft sigh and straightening his back as he lets his gaze wander around the room once again. He can’t wait to see the confusion in Akahito’s eyes, then the panic, how he’ll surely beg and cry that it was not him, that he was framed, and how the Shogun will not believe him. How satisfying it will be… and although Akahito will no longer be physically present in their garden, Kuronushi is certain his mind will not stop drifting to what he once had. He’ll keep writing his own poems, perhaps refusing to publish them, and continue reading the ones belonging to the group he once shined so brightly in — at least, that’s what Kuronushi would do. Regardless, in one way or another, Kuronushi’s poems will make their way to Akahito, he’ll make sure of it. And once Akahito reads them, once he internalizes that someone like Kuronushi was allowed to stay while he, glorious, innocent Akahito, was not–

…What is that on his pillow? A piece of paper? Curiosity gets the better of Kuronushi, and after a moment of hesitation he leaves the poem on Akahito’s desk to instead kneel next to his futon. On the pillow is indeed a piece of paper, one that appears to have been ripped into smaller pieces and then glued back together with great care, so much so that the tears are almost invisible now. Kuronushi carefully takes it in his hand to squint down at the messy — and, he realizes with a growing sense of unease, horribly familiar — handwriting.

The spring showers

Falling, are they tears–

Kuronushi draws back, almost as if burned. That’s…that’s his poem. The one he wrote on a whim and immediately ripped apart. Why does Akahito have it? Did he seriously go through the trouble of gathering every individual piece and painstakingly gluing them back together? Why? If he only wished to read it, surely there was no need to go through the effort of repairing it — he could have just placed the pieces close together. Is he keeping it to study it or something? Why would he? It’s mediocre at best, and needlessly sentimental, even by Kuronushi’s self-reflective standards. And why would he keep it on his damn pillow, instead of a desk or table like any normal person? What was he even doing with it?

“Kuronushi?”

Kuronushi’s heart nearly stutters its way out of his chest. He shoots to his feet, poem still held tightly in his hand. “You…”

Akahito’s eyes shine like embers in the low light of the candle he’s carrying, curious and deceptively soft. “May I ask what you’re doing here at this hour? Do you have any business with me?”

Akahito’s tone is gentle, his expression open. Somehow, that’s what lets Kuronushi remember his anger. “What is this?” he snaps, raising a hand to hold the poem in Akahito’s direction.

Akahito blinks, and a flash of nervousness darkens his eyes, albeit only for a brief moment. “I do believe that’s the poem you wrote a few days ago.”

“Obviously. Why do you have it?”

Akahito closes the door behind him and takes a step forward. His are slow and measured movements, as if he were deeply aware that he’s treading on cracking ice. “I thought it a beautiful poem, and that it would be a shame to let it be forgotten and swept away by the wind.”

Kuronushi scoffs. As if. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s no one here but us. No need to keep pretending, sensei.”

The words that Akahito was about to say seem to leave him before they can make it through his lips. He closes his mouth with a soft sigh, his crimson eyes lowering, then takes a few more steps, just enough to rest the candle holder on his desk, right next to… next to his poems, and the copied work still sitting next to them. Kuronushi bites back a swear. “I don’t understand why you find it so hard to believe that I admire you.”

“Why should I? Why should you?" Kuronushi steps forward as well, not necessarily in order to get closer to the other man, but to hopefully distract him enough to swipe the plagiarized poem from under his nose. “Everyone knows you’re better than me.”

For the first time since they met, Akahito looks frustrated as he raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “How many times must I tell you that I…”

Akahito opens his eyes, and promptly trails off. To Kuronushi’s horror, he’s staring down at the plagiarized poem. “What’s this…?”

“Listen–”

When Akahito only spares him a confused glance before leaning down to read, Kuronushi strongly considers grabbing something heavy to smash over his head, though another quick scan of the room reveals a concerning shortage of those. He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes darting around for an escape route. How could he go into this without a backup plan?

“Was this… your doing, Kuronushi?”

With some difficulty, Kuronushi meets Akahito’s gaze. The man looks… betrayed. Right, of course he’s already figured it out. He’s smart. “I… I don’t understand,” Akahito whispers. His voice is a small, trembling thing, as if Kuronushi’s betrayal, if it could even be called that, had genuinely broken his heart. “Do you truly hate me this much?”

Kuronushi stares him down, his hands curling into fists. The panic he should be feeling doesn’t seem to have hit him just yet; there’s only a rising anger, one that threatens to burn him down from within if he doesn’t let it out. “How dare you,” he hisses, and Akahito has the audacity to look at him like a kicked dog and the anger flares once again, enough to briefly leave Kuronushi breathless. “How dare you act as if you don’t understand.”

“But I truly don’t.” Akahito raises a hand to his heart, his wide eyes filled with sorrow. “Have I wronged you in some way?”

“Hah! Do you really need to ask?” Kuronushi closes the distance between them with swift steps and grabs a fistful of Akahito’s haori, glaring daggers into his eyes. “Ever since you arrived, I have been mocked and ridiculed without rest. I cannot go a single week, cannot read a single review of my work without being subjected to someone shoehorning you into the discussion just so they can go on and on about how much better you are! Do you have any idea how exhausting that is?”

“I’m sorry–”

“Sorry isn’t enough!” Kuronushi pushes him with all the frustration he can muster, and Akahito falls to the ground with little resistance. “You ruined my life! It’s all your fault, all of it, and you expect me to forgive you just because you said sorry?”

Akahito opens his mouth to reply, startled confusion written all over his face, but his mouth quickly snaps shut when Kuronushi settles on top of him. He does it out of anger, fully intending to wrap his hands around Akahito’s throat and squeeze the life out of him, yet the position mercilessly reminds him of his fantasies a few nights ago and he freezes, fists loosely curled in Akahito’s haori. He hesitates long enough for Akahito to recover; yet to his surprise, the man doesn’t attempt to free himself. Instead, he speaks. “I cannot express how much I regret hurting you, and I hope you can understand that it was never my intention. Please…” His hand slowly rises, eventually settling over Kuronushi’s cheek. The gentle warmth of it makes his breath hitch, his eyes widen. “Please tell me how I may make it up to you.”

Kuronushi is frozen for a moment too long before he remembers himself. He slaps Akahito’s hand away, his entire upper body seemingly burning at the contact. “You could start by keeping your hands off of me,” he scoffs — gasps, really, because he seems to have little to no control over his breathing right now. “You want to make it up to me? Then never show your face in front of me again.”

Akahito’s eyes are as heated and blinding as twin suns, burning through the near-darkness of the room and pinning Kuronushi down with their sheer intensity. “I’m afraid that’s the one thing I cannot do,” he whispers. The hand that was just batted away moves once again, this time settling over the curve of Kuronushi’s hip. “I don’t dare imagine a life without you, my muse.”

Something inside Kuronushi’s brain stutters. He stares down at Akahito, caught somewhere between the poet’s audacity in touching him again, in such an intimate place at that, and the sheer absurdity of his words; and when the words do register, it’s a mixture of anger and embarrassment that colors his cheeks a deep red. “You– muse?! How dare you spout such blatant lies?”

Akahito does not seem perturbed by his outburst. “I’m not lying,” he begins, calm as a still lake. “That poem I wanted to show you a few days ago–”

Kuronushi quickly decides that he’s had enough. In an impulsive burst that he will probably regret later, he pins Akahito’s hands above his head with one of his own and unties his obi with the other. Akahito is shockingly compliant as Kuronushi binds his wrists together, the calm melting off of him in favor of a look very reminiscent of a deer staring down a hunter’s bow. “First off all,” Kuronushi snarls through gritted teeth, “stop touching me. Second of all, keep your filthy, lying mouth shut. Do you take me for– for some damsel you can seduce with pretty words and empty promises?”

“I–”

Kuronushi wraps a hand around Akahito’s throat, and the man immediately falls silent. “Be quiet. You’ve said more than enough, done more than enough. I have no interest in hearing more from you.” He tightens his grip, yet Akahito doesn’t look scared; on the contrary, there’s a growing heat in his crimson gaze, a quiet surrender in the way he tilts his head to expose more of his slender neck. His hair has come partially undone, and stray locks of it pool around his head, the paleness of it almost glowing against both the dark wood of the floor and the poet’s flushed cheeks. Just like…

Kuronushi, rendered both speechless and motionless by the sight beneath him, swallows. Is he dreaming once again? Why is Akahito being so pliant? He just realized the depths of Kuronushi’s hatred for him, uncovered his plot to have him exiled — and Kuronushi should kill him for it, he should, they both know that, and yet…

And yet, when Kuronushi shifts, he feels something hard pressing against his crotch.

He pauses. He wonders for a moment whether he’s misunderstood, whether Akahito has… some implement or other tucked inside his hakama, yet the way the poet flushes and his lips twitch in embarrassment paints a damningly vivid picture. “You… what is wrong with you?” Kuronushi whispers, staring down at Akahito with wide eyes.

When Akahito swallows, Kuronushi can feel his Adam’s apple bob under his palms. “I apologize,” the man begins, his voice made low and slightly strangled by Kuronushi’s hold. “I assure you, it was not my intention to be so… vulgar. I simply find it difficult to restrain myself when it comes to you.”

Kuronushi continues to stare. Despite the slight embarrassment in his eyes, Akahito somehow managed to say that with a mostly straight face. Incredible. What is even more incredible is how absurd this situation is quickly becoming, yet… does it truly matter? Is how they got here and what may be going through Akahito’s mind that important? As long as he can get out of this unscathed, and perhaps let some of this anger out…

The hardness pressing against him is making it rather hard to consider any other options. Kuronushi’s fingers flex around Akahito’s throat, drawing a trembling gasp from his lips. “You say you find it difficult to restrain yourself around me,” Kuronushi says, moving away one of his hands to instead reach for his own hakama. “Yet you’ve always been so composed when speaking to me. Are you lying again, sensei?”

“I wasn’t lying then, and I’m not lying now,” Akahito replies without a beat of hesitation, though when Kuronushi raises his hips as he grabs his waistband his scarlet gaze lingers there for a moment too long. “I simply did everything in my power to conceal my fascination. You… never seemed to like me, so I was worried the intensity of my feelings would scare you off.”

“Scare me off? Never. But you certainly would have angered me. You are angering me.” Kuronushi can’t even tell whether Akahito is lying or not anymore, but he’s edging closer and closer to the point of not caring, at least for now. He lowers his pants and underwear in a single motion, fighting the urge to swallow when Akahito’s eyes widen and fixate on his crotch. The poet even raises his head as much as Kuronushi’s hand will allow him to in an effort to get a better look. How unbecoming. “And you’re going to have to pay for it.”

Akahito doesn’t even need to think. “Anything,” he immediately breathes, his heated gaze climbing along Kuronushi’s body to find his eyes. “Anything. If you… if you wish to use me, then I am at your disposal.”

“Your eagerness is showing, sensei,” Kuronushi drawls, though he has to admit the attention is… not unpleasant. Perhaps Akahito was being honest about his fixation after all. Kuronushi is attractive — and that’s not gloating, but rather stating a simple fact of life — so it’s no surprise that someone as interested in beautiful things as Akahito would find him worthy of his attention. Kuronushi shelved the seduction angle without a second thought a few days ago, but it may have its merits after all. Venting his frustrations and having Akahito at his beck and call? Now there’s a thought. Kuronushi smiles to himself as he unties Akahito’s obi and quickly frees his length, his smile growing wider and wider as the poet raises his hips to assist him. He’s already leaking… “How pathetic. I haven’t even done anything to you.”

Once again, the slight bashfulness coloring Akahito’s cheeks doesn’t rob him of words. “The man I have always been enamored by is laying on top of me and preparing to unite our bodies. How could I possibly remain indifferent?”

Kuronushi firmly grasps him, chuckling when Akahito arches his back and a choked-up moan tumbles from his lips. “I thought you above such shallow urges.”

“There is… n-nothing shallow about my longing for– ah, gods!”

Kuronushi drops down on him without warning, the slap of skin against skin mingling with Akahito’s choked gasps. His lack of preparations is already making itself known as his walls are stretched painfully around Akahito’s cock, but he manages to bury any signs of discomfort before the poet can recover enough to point them out. “You were saying, sensei?”

“Please…” Akahito shudders his way through a few labored breaths, his chest rising and falling erratically as his back arches at the pleasure he must certainly be feeling. “P-please call me by name…”

What a shameless request… still, Kuronushi sees no reason to deny it. He languidly rolls his hips, grinning at the sight of the poet squirming and panting. “Akahito… are you enjoying yourself this much already?” he drawls. He reaches for Akahito’s haori next, playing around with the collar as he considers undressing the man completely.

Akahito whimpers — whimpers! — as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Again… say my name again, please…”

“Hmm… if you insist, Akahito.”

To his delight and astonishment alike, Akahito throbs inside of him. “I… I love the way you say it…”

“Oh really?” Kuronushi leans in with a mischievous grin, brushing his lips against Akahito’s ear and giggling when the man shivers. “A-ka-hi-to?”

The whine Akahito lets out in response is the loudest and most shameless one yet. Was it truly just the sound of his name? Perhaps he has sensitive ears? Kuronushi continues to slowly roll his hips as he administers both kisses and soft bites to the shell of Akahito's ear, and his second assumption is quickly confirmed as the man continues to shiver at each touch, each giggle. “Look at you,” Kuronushi purrs as he leans back, and for the first time since he let Akahito enter him he rises on his knees and falls back down, laughing when Akahito moans without a shred of shame. “So helpless, so submissive… I almost feel sorry for Sumizome.”

Somehow, that’s what snaps Akahito out of it. The man struggles to raise his head, and his eyes seem to have lost that pleasured sheen as they meet Kuronushi’s own with an incredulous stare. Did the mention of his lover remind him that he’s not supposed to be doing this? That’d be… a shame.

But no, that doesn’t seem to be it, because Akahito looks genuinely perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Akahito. Did you think no one would notice?"

“I don’t–”

“All those stolen glances, all the love poems you’ve shown her… and just tonight, I saw you sneak into her room.” Kuronushi doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness that takes hold of him at the thought. “It’s obvious, really.”

For some reason, Akahito continues to fight him. “Th‐that’s not what’s going on at all,” he says, spitting out the words so quickly he almost stumbles over them. “Sumizome is a dear friend–”

“Hah! An excuse as old as time. You–”

It happens so quickly that Kuronushi doesn’t fully register it: one moment he’s glaring down at Akahito, and the next he’s trapped below the other man’s body. He blinks up at him, reeling at the sudden change of position, as Akahito leans in, resting his weight on the bound hands he’s placed above Kuronushi's head. “You are making,” Akahito whispers, a flush still high on his cheeks despite his clear displeasure, “far too many assumptions about me.”

“Oh?” Kuronushi forces out a laugh, though the sight of Akahito looming above, red-faced and short of breath, is far too appealing to completely ignore and briefly robs him of words. “Such as?”

“First of all, I am not interested in women.”

“Oh.”

“Second of all…” Akahito shifts, resting his elbows on either side of Kuronushi’s head. His breath, smelling faintly of sweet tea, warms Kuronushi’s lips. “Those poems were always inspired by you. Meant for you. As my childhood friend, Sumizome is the only person I ever confided that to.”

“And you expect me to simply believe that the magnificent, perfect Akahito could have any interest in me beyond shallow physical attraction?” Kuronushi tilts his head away, swallowing the wave of resentment rising to burn his throat and prick his eyes.

“...Would you want me to?”

“Huh?”

“Say that I am in love with you. How would that make you feel?”

Kuronushi’s breath hitches, and he forces himself to sigh deeply. “You’d never.”

“Indulge me.”

“I… Vindicated. If someone as wonderful as you could love me, surely that would mean I’m not that detestable after all.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Akahito tilt his head, apparently in an attempt to meet Kuronushi’s gaze. “Wonderful? Detestable?” he presses, his voice soft despite his insistence.

“That’s what everyone says we are.”

“And do you agree with them?”

Once again, Kuronushi forces a deep breath. What’s with this man… Kuronushi should be furious about being questioned so thoroughly, yet he feels simply… exhausted. “...Of course I do. So what.”

Akahito doesn't immediately reply, and while Kuronushi would have normally turned to study his expression, he has the distinct feeling that he’s the one currently being studied. He presses his lips together and very vividly considers escaping this room, finding a razor and putting an end to this meaningless charade — though which of the two he should take out to achieve that, he’s not entirely sure.

“Please untie me.”

“Huh?” Kuronushi does turn to look at Akahito now, caught off-guard by the sudden request. “Why should I?”

Akahito sighs softly as he sits up on his knees, and the action mercilessly reminds Kuronushi of the fact that Akahito is still buried inside of him. He flushes, already cursing himself for his foolish actions. “I’d like to prove a point to you, but I won’t be able to in my current state,” Akahito explains placidly. He moves his hands to let them hover in the space between them. “Please untie me, Kuronushi.”

“No. I have no interest in any points you’d like to prove.”

“Pretty please?”

“Pretty– are you a child, or are you just mocking me? Do you really think I’d be swayed that easily? Do you take me for someone shallow enough to swoon over a sweet smile and innocent-looking eyes? Don’t insult me.”

“Kuronushi–”

“You expect me to believe you’re so enamored with me, just to then treat me like this? And you have the gall to ask me why I hate you? You–”

“Kuronushi.”

“–infuriate me, you think you’re so much better than everyone else, think everything is owed to you– what are you doing?”

Akahito blinks at him, hands held close to his face and obi caught between his teeth. After a beat of silence, he frees his mouth. “Undoing my restraints myself, since you’re so averse to the idea.”

…Unfortunately, the silk of the obi Kuronushi used to tie him is not strong enough of a material to truly restrain him. Kuronushi scoffs under his breath, then reaches for the knot and unties it in a matter of seconds. Of course it’d be undone so easily… how foolish. “Done. Happy now?”

“Very,” Akahito replies with a smile, shifting away just enough to pull out. Kuronushi bites down on his tongue, and barely resists the urge to slam his thighs closed when he feels wetness trickling down.

Then, to his surprise, Akahito slips his hands under Kuronushi’s body and gently takes him in his arms, then rises to his feet. Kuronushi tenses for a moment too long before his instincts kick in, and he once again goes straight for Akahito’s throat. “Put me down.”

Akahito swallows and parts his lips; after a warning glare, Kuronushi softens his grip enough to let him speak. “I wish to indulge you,” the man murmurs, “and in doing so, I hope to also prove that point.”

“Indulge me.”

For the first time in a while, Akahito looks uncertain. He glances between Kuronushi and his futon, swallowing. “You… are the one who initiated this, despite your opinion of me. Would it be alright for me to…?”

…The anger Kuronushi has been clinging to is becoming harder and harder to muster. The situation is extremely embarrassing, yes, and feels closer to a fever dream than reality, yet Akahito’s hesitant gaze gives him pause. It is true that Kuronushi is the one who pushed things this far; he already decided that going along with this wouldn’t be so horrible, and if he entertains Akahito, he may be able to convince him to keep his attempt to get rid of him a secret. Give and take, a favor for a favor. Seems fair enough to him. “Fine, then. Go on.”

“Are you certain? You don’t have to agree only to make me happy.”

“Hah! Do you really think I’d do anything just to make you happy?”

If Kuronushi’s go-ahead seemed to return a soft gust of wind to Akahito’s sails, his dry response now steals it right back. “I… suppose not,” the man whispers, lowering his gaze.

Perhaps he really does feel something positive for Kuronushi, because the poet has no other explanation for Akahito’s disappointment. “Stop acting like a kicked dog and get a move on,” he grumbles. “Before I change my mind.”

“...Very well.”

Although Akahito is not quite as flippant as he seemed to be only a few minutes ago, he at least doesn’t waste any more time on useless words. He lays Kuronushi down on the futon and begins undressing him, his every movement slow and careful, worn fingertips caressing the pale skin of his thighs. There’s a sort of tender reverence to it, a warm light in his crimson eyes that has heat rising to Kuronushi’s cheeks and pooling between his legs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Having completely undressed his lower body, Akahito moves to his torso. He caresses every inch of uncovered skin, a quiet chuckle gracing his lips when goosebumps erupt on Kunorushi’s chest. “Like what?”

Like you’re actually in love with me. Like you’re looking at something precious. “Like a dog in heat. You’re nauseating.”

This time, his sharp words don’t seem to phase Akahito. Perhaps he was better prepared for them. “You know,” the poet begins conversationally, tracing the shape of Kuronushi’s ribcage, “I am enjoying experiencing this foul-mouthed side of you. I always hoped to see beyond your polite facade.”

Unfortunately, Kuronushi isn't allowed enough time to come up with a suitably “foul-mouthed” response, because Akahito steals his breath away by pressing a kiss to his diaphragm. “I always hoped to see you, in general,” the poet continues in a whisper. “The real you.”

The pang of surprised excitement that tears its way through Kuronushi’s chest is mercilessly smothered and forgotten. As if anyone could ever enjoy such a sight. “Well, you’re seeing me now,” Kurunushi scoffs with a laugh. “Disappointed yet?”

Akahito firmly shakes his head. “Aside from the fact that you could never disappoint me, I have yet to see the real you. You’re still hiding from me.”

“I am doing no such thing. Being in denial doesn’t suit you, Akahito.”

“Denial? Far from it. I can simply tell there are things you won’t admit, perhaps not even to yourself.” Akahito once again prevents Kuronushi from speaking by peppering a myriad of kisses against his skin — on his sternum, his clavicle, and then back down again to his navel. “And I intend to unravel those secrets.”

To Kuronushi’s chagrin, the voice Akahito uses to say that — soft, low, ever-so-slightly rough — sends a chill down his spine. He hides it with a smirk, tilting his head back to expose his neck in a show of confidence. “Good luck with that.”

Akahito only hums, and although his eyes flit down to Kuronushi’s embarrassingly wet core, he ignores it in favor of moving even lower. His hands and lips trail across Kuronushi’s legs, sinking into the soft flesh of his thighs, brushing against the back of his knee, barely tickling the sole of his foot. Kuronushi attempts to escape the stimulation but Akahito is faster, grabbing him by the ankle to keep him firmly in place. “H-hey–”

“Shh. Relax.” Akahito’s lips press against the bridge of his foot next, while his fingertips caress the inner part of his ankle. “Let me take care of you.”

The soft words leave Kuronushi speechless. He stares at Akahito as the man continues his ministrations, and his entire being stiffens and starts spouting silent curses at the warmth curling within it. This is… no, he can’t allow himself to get invested in whatever this is. He can’t allow the hatred he’s been clinging to with all his might to be chased away by a few kisses and some pretty words. Does he not have a backbone? “Akahito.”

Akahito pauses and glances up at him through pale eyelashes, lips pressed to Kuronushi’s calf. In a few seconds it becomes clear that he’s waiting for Kuronushi to speak, yet the man finds that he can't bring himself to say a single word. His demands for Akahito to stop, to let him go, to treat him as harshly as Kuronushi wants to treat him, all vanish like the dew at dawn and leave him with a dry throat and hollow chest. All he can do is shake his head. “Nevermind. Go on.”

Akahito meets his sudden reluctance with an unconvinced stare, but to Kuronushi’s relief he gets right back to work. He moves back up his legs, once again skips over his core, massages his belly, and finally reaches for Kuronushi’s hands, still tangled in the sheets. He gently works them open, pressing his thumbs against Kuronushi’s palms, and then kisses them one after the other, lingering on each finger, breath brushing against his knuckles. “Such talented hands,” he whispers, smiling up at Kuronushi when the man simultaneously scoffs and shivers. “A shame so few appreciate them as I do. I should immortalize you in a poem, let the whole world know how lovely you are…”

“Stop spouting nonsense.” Kuronushi bites down on his lip as Akahito moves to his wrist, then the crook of his elbow, smiling lips tickling his sensitive skin.

Akahito chuckles as he travels further up, to his shoulder, his clavicle, his sternum again. “Nonsense? Hardly, I’m only speaking my mind. May I?”

It takes Kuronushi’s addled mind a moment to realize Akahito is asking for permission to touch his breasts. He allows it with a shallow nod. To his surprise, Akahito doesn’t fixate on them; he treats them as he did the rest of his body, caressing them a few times, pressing a couple of fleeting kisses to his nipples, and then moving on to Kuronushi’s neck. There, he whispers, “Upon my breast floats a boat of heartbreak, and I have just embarked; there's not a single day when waves do not soak my sleeves. Do you recognize it?”

Kuronushi blinks several times and sinks his nails in his palms in an attempt to focus. “Of course. It’s one of your poems.” Kuronushi remembers reading it some time ago, and also remembers thinking that Akahito must have only been acting dramatic. Surely nothing could have happened to him to warrant such grief.

“This, too, was written thinking of you.” Akahito’s arms make their way underneath Kuronushi’s back, and press him closer. With their bodies flush, Kuronushi can feel the other man’s heart racing against his own. “I composed it when I realized there was a very real chance you would never reciprocate my feelings. It made me ache so terribly.”

“That hasn’t changed, you know,” Kuronushi whispers. “Don’t mistake compliance for affection.”

At first, Akahito’s only reply is a quiet hum. His hold on Kuronushi tightens, his forehead falling to rest on the crook of his neck. “Would you blame me for not wanting to believe you?”

Kurinushi inhales sharply. This man is… unbelievable. “I thought you wanted to indulge me, yet all you’re doing is wasting my time with meaningless words. If this is how it’s going to be, then I may as well leave.”

“Please don’t.” The request slips from Akahito’s lips so quickly that Kuronushi isn’t fully convinced he said it consciously. Regardless, Akahito pauses for a moment as he lets out a deep sigh, then presses a kiss to the underside of Kuronushi’s jaw before reluctantly drawing back. Without his body pressed against Kuronushi’s bare one, the night suddenly feels colder. “As you wish, then. Could you please turn around for me?”

“Why?”

“So that I may indulge you.”

“And you’re only capable of doing that if I’m giving my back to you?”

Akahito flashes a small, somewhat nervous smile. “Please?”

“...Tsk.”

Kuronushi sits up, folding his legs and holding them close to his body for a moment. After a few beats of him holding Akahito’s gaze, the man blushes and averts his eyes. “If you find that disagreeable, then please feel free to… assume any position you’d like. I-I’ll undress in the meantime, if you don’t mind.”

Once again, Kuronushi clicks his tongue. Akahito hesitates for a moment more before standing and beginning to undress, and with his scarlet eyes safely hidden from view, Kuronushi finds it in him to take a deep breath and think. Akahito’s suggestion is far from what he always imagined, very much so; he’d much rather be in control, he’s certain he would feel immensely gratified as he watched the poet squirm beneath him, completely at his mercy. Yet… it is also true that he’s doing this to win him over. If he goes along with his wishes now, no matter how humiliating, he may hold enough power to turn things around and do as he wishes later.

Kuronushi curses under his breath, then slowly rolls over to lie on his belly. How embarrassing… and, he suddenly realizes as Akahito takes position above him, how dangerous. If Akahito wanted to hurt him, this would be the best moment to do it. He could extract a hidden weapon and slit his throat, or hold him down as he smothers him against the pillow…

“You’re tense.” Akahito’s voice is soft, as are his hands as they run along his waist, then the small of his back. “Are you feeling uncomfortable?”

Kurinushi forces out a laugh. “I am physically below you and defenseless. Who wouldn’t be uncomfortable?”

Akahito’s hands pause. “Do you truly believe I’d hurt you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Kuronushi huffs, biting back a shiver when one of Akahito’s hands inches lower and eventually settles on the swell of his thigh. “Don’t you feel upset at my actions? Angry? Betrayed?”

“Of course I am upset.” Akahito whispers this straight into Kuronushi’s ear, and this time he can’t hide the chill that travels down his spine. “I am upset that you’d try to frame me in such a way, and upset that my feelings for you were misread so badly, but I’d rather attempt to fix that than punish you in any way.”

“Oh? Too noble to take your anger out on me?” Reluctantly, Kuronushi goes along with the silent request of Akahito’s hands and rises on his knees, then angles his hips to expose himself. His heart is hammering in his throat.

Akahito hums, then very gently and very slowly presses a finger between Kuronushi’s folds. The man tenses, his hands curling into the sheets. “I feel no need to,” Akahito mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of Kuronushi’s neck. “Were you truly expecting me to?”

“Maybe.” Kuronushi lets out a trembling sigh as that finger reaches his weeping hole, pressing against the tender rim before slowly making its way inside. “Y-you could make me bruise,” he blurts out, only partially aware of what he’s saying as his entire being rushes to focus on the finger sinking further and further in. “Fuck me until I am unable to stand, ensure I’ll make a fool of myself tomorrow. Carve your name into my skin, so everyone will know what I’m allowing you to do.”

Akahito laughs, low and vaguely amused, as he presses a kiss to the shell of Kuronushi’s ear. “Please don’t give me ideas, my muse.”

That threat, if it could even be called one, low and upsettingly arousing, ends up being the tipping point. Kuronushi finds himself unable to say a single word in response, clinging to the sheets for dear life as Akahito spreads him open, one long and calloused finger at a time. His movements are slow, gentle, yet merciless in their advance, leaving Kuronushi with not even a spare moment to catch his breath. He curls and tenses against the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut and smothering his pants into the pillow. To his dismay, Akahito is not silent — he keeps placing soft kisses to Kuronushi’s ear as he whispers on and on about how beautiful Kuronushi is, how good for him, how perfect. It makes a part of Kuronushi want to kick out and scream, to make him eat those honeyed words, yet he can’t quite bring himself to, too taken by the pleasure curling inside of him and making his thighs shake.

When Akahito pulls his fingers out with a shamefully wet sound, Kuronushi finally has a chance to breathe. He turns his head to the side and heaves one labored breath after the other, frantically blinking a film of pleasure from his eyes. This… may not be exactly what he fantasized about, but he’d be a fool to say that it isn’t pleasant. Now, if Akahito could just get a move on…

To his relief, Akahito seems to be doing just that. He shifts so that he’s fully behind Kuronushi, delicately taking him by the hips and spreading him open. “May I continue?” he whispers, and although his voice is patient there’s an undeniable eagerness making it tremble. It makes Kuronushi laugh. Perfect or not, Akahito is only human, after all.

Once Kuronushi has granted him permission, Akahito takes a steadying breath before pressing himself against his entrance and breaching him painfully slowly, despite the fact that he was already inside him not too long ago. Kuronushi’s body, at least, is pleased by the lack of pain. He allows himself to relax, letting out a long sigh as Akahito settles, though he’s quick to tense again when Akahito leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. He just can’t get it through his thick skull, can he? “Hey. No kissing.”

Akahito lets out a soft whine, and Kuronushi finds himself wondering whether to call this behavior of his pathetic or, regrettably, kind of cute. “But I was also kissing you before, and you didn’t have a problem with it…”

“Well, I changed my mind.”

“Ah… alright, as you wish,” Akahito whispers, drawing back.

Kuronushi blinks. That was… easy? “At least you understand boundaries.”

“Of course I do.” Akahito laughs with all the gentleness of a leaf settling on the water’s surface. “I would hate to make this uncomfortable for you.”

Kuronushi’s heart twists at the words. This man really does care, doesn’t he? Somehow, for some godsforsaken reason… “Get a move on, then.”

And finally, finally, Akahito does. He’s quick to set a steady pace, neither harsh nor timid, gentle in a way, but not to the point of discomfort. Although Kuronushi can’t see him, Akahito still floods his entire being: he can hear his loud, deliberately deep breaths, can feel his calloused hands press down on Kuronushi’s hips with every thrust. It’s easy to abandon himself to the feeling, easy to close his eyes and let pleasure drown out all other thoughts. Easy to pretend this means nothing, that Akahito is only here to satisfy an itch and that Kuronushi isn’t still balancing on the edge of his hatred and risking losing sight of it entirely. Easy to forget, even if only for a moment.

But the moment is fleeting, and Akahito’s presence brings with it a wave of bitterness. Kuronushi swallows, blinking rapidly at the threat of tears burning behind his eyes. He tells himself they’re tears of pleasure, because what else could they be? It’s certainly not sadness — he’s not sad, far from it. Dejection? Frustration? Those seem more likely. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of it all that upsets him, perhaps the threat of the firm grasp he’s had on his emotions being ripped away from him by something as foolish as a smile and a couple of compliments. Akahito doesn’t deserve his understanding, his grace, and least of all his affection; if he truly wants them, then he’ll have to earn them.

Kuronushi doesn’t quite notice how Akahito’s thrusts have slowed until he feels the man’s breath brushing against his bare nape. “What are you thinking about?" Akahito rasps, raw and breathless.

“None of your business,” Kuronushi replies without missing a beat. “If you’re self-aware enough to realize that I’m distracted, surely you should also be able to draw some conclusions about your performance.”

“My performance?” Akahito asks it lightly, clearly unconvinced. A slow roll his hips lets him sink in to his fullest and press against every crevice, inch after sensitive inch, and the relentless pleasure of it, akin to someone pressing down on a bruise, nearly makes Kuronushi’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He prays Akahito doesn’t notice it. “Is it not to your satisfaction?”

“Far from it,” Kuronushi chuckles with what little breath he has left. “Remember… that I am the one allowing you to do this. Do try to show me something worthwhile, or I might just change my mind.”

Kuronushi regrets his words almost as soon as they leave his lips — why would he encourage this? Why would he make this harder on himself, pleasurable or not? Yet it’s already far too late to take it back. Thanks to his foolishness, Kuronushi ends up having to keep a straight face as Akahito pulls out and gently turns him to lie on his back, then stares him down with a roguish smile. “May I try something else, then?”

“If you think it would be better than whatever you’re doing now, then be my guest.”

Kuronushi realizes his mistake when Akahito lifts Kuronushi’s legs enough to bring the knees far too close to his face, but again, it’s too late to eat his words. All it takes is a single thrust to realize that the new angle is too much, and Kuronushi’s arms immediately fly to cover his face and the humiliating expressions that must surely be contorting it. He can’t seem to be able to catch his breath, either, pleasure burning his every bone, every muscle, and punching the air from his lungs with pathetic little whimpers that he bites his tongue bloody in an effort to contain. It doesn’t quite work, and all he accomplishes is turning into a tight ball of nerves that shivers and whines at the smallest of movements. It makes him feel pathetic, so upsettingly vulnerable, and yet he can’t deny that it feels good. The only drawback is that as soon as his brain remembers that it’s Akahito, that damned Akahito, bringing him such pleasure, he finds himself unable to ignore that simple fact, and it isn’t long before Akahito’s name tumbles from his trembling lips.

Something about it — perhaps the broken way in which he said it, or perhaps the fact he acknowledged him at all — makes Akahito falter, his breath catching in his lungs and the grip of his hands softening. “Is this better?” the poet asks with a laugh, and if Kuronushi were to lower his arms he’s certain he’d see his eyes shimmering.

“P-passable,” he manages to mumble, nails digging into his crossed arms. “Would be even better if– hnn–” A bitten-back swear, a few labored breaths. “If you could give that sma… smart mouth of yours a rest.”

“Hmm… I was planning on using it for something else later,” the brazen-faced pain in the ass drawls teasingly. “But as you wish.”

A trap, that. Kuronushi is smart enough to keep his mouth firmly shut, and Akahito thankfully follows suit. He falls back into silence aside from his heavy breaths, the occasional groan, and a soft moan when he finds a beautifully tender spot and Kuronushi clenches down on him. Akahito focuses on that spot without missing a beat, every sharp thrust accompanied by the slap of skin against skin and Kuronushi’s quiet sounds, which are becoming nearly impossible to tame. He tries anyway, biting down on his lip until he tastes blood, but the pain of it is only successful in edging him closer and closer to his climax.

Unfortunately, Akahito seems to notice. He shifts to let Kuronushi’s legs lower and rest around his waist instead, and his newly freed hands gently grasp Kuronushi’s arms. “Please, may I see you?” he asks in a whisper.

“No.”

The next thrust is once again slow and tender. Kuronushi wishes he could scream at him to shut the fuck up and get things over with without sounding like a whiny brat. “Please?”

“I don’t know why you keep begging,” Kuronushi laughs, his toes curling and his breath wavering when Akahito presses himself inside of him once again. “It’s not going to g-get you anywhere."

Akahito lets out a soft breath, and pulls at his arms. It’s a gentle touch, barely applying any pressure at all, yet Kuronushi, for some godsforsaken reason, goes along with it. He allows Akahito to move his arms away and press them against the mattress, and after a moment of indecision, then resignation, Kuronushi opens his eyes.

Predictably, Akahito is smiling down at him. A bright flush has settled high on his cheeks, and strands of pale hair are pressed against his forehead and neck by sweat — disgusting in theory, but unfortunately only in theory; in practice, there’s something about it that makes Kuronushi’s stomach swoop. It must show on his face because Akahito’s smile widens, showing a flash of pearly teeth and digging dimples into his cheeks. And his eyes… to say that they’re shining would be an understatement. Even were the rest of Akahito’s face hidden, Kuronushi would be able to sense his unbridled joy from his eyes alone, able to taste the breathless ecstasy dancing and giggling on his rosy lips.

Kuronushi averts his gaze before his thoughts can stray further. Even now, at his least composed, Akahito is still so radiant. It really must come naturally to him, then. How unfair.

“Could you look at me, my muse?”

“No,” Kuronushi whispers. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

Akahito falls silent, and his thrusts quicken yet again, relentlessly pounding the spot that’s been steadily unraveling Kuronushi; yet Akahito also moves closer, closer, until his forehead is resting against Kuronushi’s and their strained breaths are mingling in what little space is left between their lips. “What do you think you’re doing,” Kuronushi pants under his breath, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the wall.

When Akahito’s hands leave his arms to instead cup his cheeks, Kuronushi closes his eyes. “Admiring my muse, of course,” Akahito breathes, his thumbs caressing Kuronushi’s cheekbones, slowly, reverently, as if committing them to memory. “You’re beautiful.”

“T-tell me something I don’t know.”

“You’re more gentle than anyone is willing to accept.” When Kuronushi snaps his eyes open to stare at him, Akahito’s smile softens and he adds, “yourself included.”

The tenderness in Akahito’s eyes sends a shiver down Kurunushi’s spine, but he’s quick to dismiss it. “Don’t mock me. Have you already forgotten my attempt at framing you? Would a gentle person do that?”

“Hmm… I would say that’s the difference between being gentle and being kind.” The next thrust, a deep, toe-curling thing, is accompanied by a fond breath falling from Akahito’s lips; he then pauses there, buried deep inside, applying a relentless pressure that makes it difficult for Kuronushi to breathe. “You’re not kind, but you are gentle. Someone who has tenderness hidden deep within his heart, and ought to be held tenderly in turn.”

“H-hah. And however did you come to that conclusion?”

“Your poems,” Akahito replies plainly, as if it were as glaringly obvious as the sun shining in the sky. “Some may find them too gloomy, others pretentious, but I reject those interpretations. To me, they are a peek beyond your mask, a window into your soul. How sad, to think I will end as only a pale green mist drifting the far fields. Or, The color of this flower has already faded away, while in idle thoughts my life goes by, as I watch the long rains fall.”

“What is that supposed–"

“Upon the path of dreams my feet don't rest, constantly trailing to you, yet in reality, a single glimpse: not even that have I had of you. How could I ignore such tender melancholy? How could I scoff and wave it off as an attempt to garner sympathy, as so many others have? They look upon you and see only your confidence, your calm demeanor, the sharpness of your tongue, and decide that the pain and hurt you speak of must be false, that you could not possibly be such a sensitive soul. But they’re mistaken, so grossly mistaken.” There’s a heat to Akahito’s gaze, now, one that paralyzes Kuronushi and steals all attempts at deflection from his lips. “They won’t bother to understand that it’s the opposite — that the composed coldness they see is the wall you have built around yourself to shield your gentle, vulnerable heart.”

To his horror, warmth builds within him at Akahito’s words — curling in his chest, weighing down his throat, burning his eyes. “Are you done speaking nonsense?” Kuronushi chokes out, his lips trembling as they attempt to lift into a mocking smile. “I am not a poem to be analyzed, you know; no need to make things up about me to make me seem more profound than I actually am.”

“I am doing no such thing,” Akahito whispers, his tone almost reprimanding despite its gentleness. “Kuronushi, please… won’t you let me in?”

No. No, no, no, absolutely not–

“I want to know you,” Akahito continues, either oblivious to Kuronushi’s quickening breaths or choosing to ignore them. He resumes his thrusts, too, falling into a fervent pace that scatters Kuronushi’s disorganized thoughts to the four winds. “I want to see the glimpses your poems offer in their entirety, to be able to sing of you with all the care and devotion you deserve. I want to know you so intimately, and I… I want you to know me in turn. I want to believe that this– all of this, this pleasure we’re sharing– that it could be more than mere physical attraction. It is for me, and I hope it could be for you, as well… It doesn’t have to be, I understand if you don’t feel the same way, we never have to do this again if you don’t wish to, but please allow me to witness the depths of your heart, please–”

Following an impulse he will certainly regret, Kuronushi sinks a hand in Akahito’s hair, forces him to close the distance between them, and kisses him.

Akahito gasps against his lips, his entire body freezing, and Kuronushi squeezes his eyes shut to spare himself from whatever expression is about to grace the poet’s face. He tugs on his hair in an effort to get him to do something, anything, and Akahito shivers violently before letting himself melt into the kiss. It’s only a chaste press of the lips at first, a firm, yet incomplete thing, one teetering on the edge of something more but unable to take that last step; it’s Akahito that pushes it past that edge, that presses his tongue against Kuronushi’s lips with a soft sigh, and that moans when Kuronushi lets him in. The kiss quickly spirals out of Kuronushi’s control, growing in fervor, pushing boundaries as Akahito presses himself closer and closer, as both his kisses and his thrusts turn desperate, as he grasps Kuronushi’s face and holds him firmly in place. The intensity is expected, but the assertiveness, less so; Kuronushi is too stunned to do anything about it, and all he can do is tighten the grip of his hand in Akahito’s hair, sink the other in his back, and hold on for dear life. It’s overwhelming, enough to make his head spin and the tears welling in his eyes threaten to spill.

At least he can blame those on the pleasure racking his body: between the feverish kisses and the frantic pace set by Akahito’s hips, it isn’t long before Kuronushi is pushed over the edge, a cry dying between their lips as his body tenses and seizes. Akahito is quick to follow and empty himself inside of Kuronushi, trembling hands caressing his cheeks as the poet moans and pants before his body goes limp. It’s only then that the kiss breaks, and that Kuronushi slowly opens his eyes.

To his surprise, Akahito is looking at him. He tenses as their gazes lock, and he’s suddenly hyperaware of their sweat-slicked foreheads still being pressed together, of the faintest brush of their lips, of Akahito’s warmth sitting inside of him and the gentle hold of his hands. For a moment, he wants to escape; he wants to shove Akahito off of him and storm out, then get lost somewhere in the wilderness and never come back, and maybe even look for a cliff to throw himself off of while he’s at it. But then Akahito smiles, slow, hesitant, slightly crooked and so, so warm, and all Kuronushi can do is lie there and fight not to reciprocate.

To his credit, Akahito is a conscientious lover: he insists on handling the aftermath, and is both gentle and thorough as he cleans between Kuronushi’s legs with a wet towel, then takes care of the sweat with another. He almost draws a bath for Kuronushi, though the poet stops him just in time, and he similarly has to turn him down when Akahito offers to brush his hair. Still, even his refusals can't seem to shake Akahito’s obvious good mood: the man never stops smiling, and he even begins to hum a soft tune as he changes the sheets. Kuronushi stands to the side, still naked, horribly out of place. He should leave, he reasons to himself. There’s no reason to stay here any longer — they both got what they wanted out of this, and discussing any potential deals can wait until tomorrow, or possibly the day after, considering how busy they’ll be. Yes, he should turn in for the night, attempt to sleep and pray that this… escapade won’t have any negative effects on his performance tomorrow.

And yet. And yet he stands there, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyebrows knitted into a grimace, as he watches Akahito work; and when Akahito finishes preparing his futon for the night and smiles bashfully as he asks Kuronushi to stay, Kuronushi doesn’t hesitate nearly as much as he should before slipping under the covers. It’s to study him, he lies to himself when Akahito settles next to him with a contented sigh. I can use this situation to my advantage. He seems to trust me, he’s letting down his guard; I can keep an eye on him and figure out his weaknesses. This, too, is beneficial to me.

That all goes out of the window the moment Akahito rolls over and hugs him.

Kuronushi freezes. The embrace could barely be called one at all; it’s soft, loose, closer to Akahito’s arms merely resting around his waist than an actual hold. Despite that, it still makes him feel like he’s being constricted — his skin starts crawling, and his breaths leave him in unsteady little bursts. It’s enough to give Akahito pause, as the man raises his head from where he had rested it on Kuronushi’s shoulder to look up at him. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” Kuronushi lies again, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. “Go on.”

There’s a pregnant pause, then, as Akahito continues to stare at him; his fingers briefly curl against Kuronushi’s skin, and from the corner of his eye he can see his brows furrow. And then, Akahito sighs softly as he lets go. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispers. He sounds like he genuinely cares — soft, patient, ever-so-slightly concerned — and that is when Kuronushi realizes he may have given him the wrong impression with that kiss. He closed the gap between them partly as a natural consequence of the pleasure and passion they were both experiencing, and partly to get Akahito to shut up, because every word falling from his lips only fed into the confusion burning him from within. But Akahito… he essentially confessed, in that moment, and seems to have taken Kuronushi’s kiss as a sign that he feels the same. He supposes he can’t entirely blame him, yet…

Kuronushi’s silence is certainly noticed, but not pushed. Akahito hums in a way that suggests the conversation isn’t over, but all he does for now is caressing Kuronushi’s arm before scooting away and setting a respectable distance between the two — well, as respectable of a distance as there could be in a futon that wasn’t meant for two people. Akahito wishes him a good night, and Kuronushi reciprocates under his breath.

Silence falls, and the relief it brings is short-lived: soon enough, it has turned into a painfully awkward and deafening thing. But no, this is… fine. Excellent, actually. He can play along, can’t he? Pretending that Akahito’s feelings are reciprocated would be the most effective way to prepare for the moment he tears him down from his throne. Of course, the betrayal that Akahito felt today would be nothing in comparison to what he’d experience were Kuronushi to scheme against him once again… but who cares, right? Who cares about Akahito’s feelings? All Kuronushi wants is to surpass him, in one way or another…

But no… no, that’s not quite the truth, is it? Kuronushi swallows, wrapping his arms around himself to suppress a coming chill. His objective, his real objective, never was to get rid of Akahito, nor did he want to surpass him simply in order to say that he’s won. It was to get Akahito to look at him and see an adversary, an equal. Someone he could admire as much as Kuronushi fleetingly admired him. And now he knows that he does. He always has, even when Kuronushi refused to believe him. So why does it feel so hollow? And what is he supposed to do now, both with the hatred he’s been nursing all along, and with Akahito’s love?

He truly wasn’t ready for Akahito’s feelings towards him to be so intense; just thinking about it leaves him with an immense weight sitting on his chest and throat. It feels overwhelming. Suffocating. He genuinely has no clue what he’s supposed to do about it. Is there any point in going along with it now, when there is also nothing to gain from Akahito’s vulnerability? Is there a point in ingratiating himself to the poet any further, when somehow, at some point, he already gained his deepest affection? But what would be the alternative, putting an end to it now? He’s sure Akahito wouldn't let it go… or perhaps he might, but Kuronushi would surely be subjected to his sad, sad eyes as the poet wonders where he went wrong. He’d write endless poems about it, too, and Kuronushi, like the absolute idiot he is, wouldn’t be able to stop himself from reading them.

Should he get rid of him after all? The thought should have been tempting, yet it leaves Kuronushi feeling nothing but a dull pang of unease. He can tell himself that Akahito’s feelings don’t matter all he wants, but that doesn’t change the fact that the thought of the man looking at Kuronushi with betrayal and grief fills him with something far too similar to dread, and isn’t that laughable? How did he go from wanting to see the man exiled to crawling back to worrying about what Akahito might think of him in the span of a single night? And that’s without mentioning the repulsion that comes crawling along his skin at the thought of quietly putting an end to Akahito’s life.

Just how far has he fallen? And how is he supposed to claw his way back up?

“Kuronushi…?”

“What,” Kuronushi snaps. “I’m trying to sleep.”

It’s only when he hears how much his voice is trembling that he notices the tears streaming down his cheeks. He immediately raises a hand to wipe them away, but Akahito is faster; he gently grasps Kuronushi’s chin with one hand, while the other catches his tears with tender brushes of his fingertips. “What’s going on?”

The genuine concern in his voice only spurs Kuronushi’s tears on. I don’t know, he wants to scream at the top of his lungs. I don’t know, I don’t understand anything. Do you? Do you know what I’m supposed to do?

All that falls from his trembling lips is a soft, “I truly do hate you.”

Akahito’s movements and breaths stutter, but not for long; he’s soon returning to his thankless task, though with a more pained look than before. “How come?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t– this is not–” Kuronushi fights for breath, teetering on the edge of letting everything spill out or cutting his tongue off and never speaking again. “I don't want to talk about it. Leave me alone.”

“I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t let me in.”

“And why do you care?” Kuronushi barks out with a laugh. “Do you think that just because I allowed you to use me, you’re now entitled to my every thought? Is that how it is?”

“No,” Akahito immediately protests, a deep line settling between his eyebrows. “I… first of all, I’d never want to use you, and I deeply apologize for giving you that impression. And I do want to know what’s making you hurt like this, but that’s because I– care for you.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that? With your care? I– I’ve been chasing it for so long–” Kuronushi bites his tongue, slams his eyes shut. Somewhere next to him, Akahito gasps softly. “A-at first, all I wanted was for both you and everyone else to acknowledge me as a worthy rival. For you to…” In a horrid twist of fate, quite a few things click into place now of all times; and once they do, he’s unable to stop them from spilling. “For you to… see me, the real me, and still think of me as someone worthy. But then I realized– I thought you felt only indifference towards me, and I started to tell myself that I hated you, that I hated everything I once admired, that all I needed was to surpass you and force you to acknowledge me. But then– then things started to spiral, and I couldn’t– I never truly stopped yearning for your approval, and it clashed so horribly with– with–”

When Akahito tenderly cups his cheek, something inside of Kuronushi cracks. No matter how much he tells himself that he’s being pathetic, that he’s only embarrassing himself further and will hate himself for it tomorrow, he’s unable to hold back the sobs bubbling up his throat and racking his body. Akahito rests his other hand on his waist, tentatively, as if asking for permission, and when Kuronushi, stupid, weak Kuronushi, nods, he pulls him into a tight embrace. He abandons himself to it, hiding his face in the crook of Akahito’s neck as the other gently caresses his back; and it’s disgusting, it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin and never show his face in front of anyone else again, yet he can't help the comfort that Akahito’s warmth brings. He allows himself to collapse, to show the innermost contents of his soul, as Akahito asked him to do; and if Akahito ends up being disgusted by the spectacle, then so be it. At least then they’ll both have an answer.

But he doesn’t. Akahito only lets out a soft breath, sinking a hand in Kuronushi’s hair and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head; and when Kuronushi trembles in response, Akahito sighs and whispers, “There you are, my dear.”

My dear. The name pulls an ugly sound from Kuronushi’s lips, something between a sob and a scoff. “Spare me. Th-this is… humiliating enough a-as it is.”

“It’s alright. I’m not here to judge you… far from it.” Another kiss, then another, trailing down to linger on his brow, his temple, the tip of his nose; when Akahito reaches his cheek, he sighs. “Thank you for trusting me with this side of you.”

Trusting… is that what this is? Kuronushi laughs. Will he ever understand any of this, or will he still be attempting to detangle this matted mess of feelings on his deathbed? Is there still even a crumb of hatred in his heart? Was there any to begin with, was he lying to himself all along? Or was the hatred in his heart genuine, if misguided? Regardless, what is he supposed to feel now?

Now… truthfully, now he doesn’t want to think at all.

As if reading his thoughts, “Rest,” Akahito whispers against his cheek, pausing long enough to press another kiss to Kuronushi’s skin. “We have a long day ahead of us. And after that, how about we take some time off to talk?”

“...Fine.”

His dry answer doesn’t seem to deter Akahito. Another kiss, a sigh, and then he’s gently accompanying Kuronushi’s head to his chest, his touch soft enough to be easily avoided; yet Kuronushi allows himself to be pressed against Akahito’s heart, while his warm arms envelop him in an embrace. It’s strange, but not necessarily unpleasant; he shifts around for a moment, eventually finding a comfortable position and allowing his eyes to slide shut. Against him, Akahito’s chest expands as he takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

That is not news to Kuronushi, not anymore, but it still makes his heart twist. “You know I can’t in good conscience say the same.”

“I know. I only wished for you to know.”

“I see.” Will I ever be able to say the same and mean it? Or is this destined for ruin?

Akahito kisses him again as he wishes him a good night, and Kuronushi reciprocates under his breath. He listens to the steady march of Akahito’s heart, listens until it grows slow and his breathing deep, and only then does he allow himself to close his eyes.

I suppose we will find out.

As the dew at dawn

Vanishes all ill intent.

As the mist at dawn

An unforeseen hope lingers

And chokes mind and heart:

Could this wandering plover

Find home in your forgiveness?

With a sigh, Kuronushi rests his brush. Far from his best work, but that is what happens when you jot your emotions down with little thought or filter. This poem is going to be his spur of the moment addition to the collection he’ll present in only a couple of hours, together with a more neatly written copy of the one he shredded into pieces; he supposes Akahito can keep the original, since he enjoys it so much.

As he tucks them both inside his sleeve and turns, he finds that Akahito is still sound asleep. The man has complained about being a light sleeper before, but he supposes the combination of Kuronushi’s silent movements and Akahito’s own exhaustion have preserved his rest.

He looks so soft in the dawnlight. It cards through his snowy hair, kisses his parted lips; Kuronushi buries the urge to do the same. Instead, he limits himself to gently shaking him by the shoulder.

By the time Akahito stirs, Kuronushi is already gone.