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The knob turns and rattles early in the evening. Two thuds land against the motel room's door. It takes another moment before he hears the key scrape the lock.
It's an anticipated forgetfulness, unfortunately familiar enough that Reishi doesn't bother to turn his head or reach for the black automatic stowed in the half-open drawer. No need, either, to check the digital display set at the desk's corner, or to let his pen twitch from its line on the last notice of authenticity they're to account for this week. Six separate fences for the single shipment they're taking: it'll be difficult to handle with any kind of plausibility. Still, rumor works fast—they can probably count on a little to turn in their favor. After all, they haven't yet made the run or started the bargaining. Nobody could have traced them. Not yet.
The door swings open, ruffling the papers underneath his hand. Reishi waits until it's shut again before he sets pen back to line. Forgery isn't his specialty. In ordinary circumstances he would have preferred to have an expert take care of the matter, but opportunities rise where they will. Better to take care of these matters quietly before their score leaks from tongue to ear to ground and spreads to every crook and cranny out to hear this type of tip.
Better to keep his hand in and stay independent, too. Running a two-man team's proven difficult enough as it is.
At the far end of the room, the keys jangle and summarily get tossed onto the cheap, creaky bed—with, Reishi suspects, faint resentment. There's something eternally astonishing about a prodigy who can handle a range of fifty combinations in explosives (all packed and wired into separate compartments beneath a false base in the trunk) but who can't seem to recall the existence and relevance of locks. The force heeling the door shut hardly seems so inefficient—but then, appearances are thirty percent truth and seventy percent advertisement.
In this case, he supposes, the man striding in could stand as a walking advertisement for the uses of nicotine gum and anti-leather organisations.
He signs: four characters in neat lines. In signature, the name takes a slash, too thick, and a precise curl on the final stroke. Finishing it, he looks up to find the intruder standing by his chair.
"Yo," Suoh Mikoto says.
"You're late," Reishi tells him, pleasantly enough. He's about to follow up this observation with a few choice remarks about the fine uses of wristwatches, not to speak of locked doors. By then, however, Suoh's already swept a hand along the desk and leaned in.
It's a smooth movement: bracing against the back of his chair to kiss him hard, rough and easy with interest. Reishi notes it clinically: the edge of the desk and the chair's frail arms digging lines into his elbows; Suoh's body angled sharp and attentive over his; a mouth too hot by degrees, like a man always coming out of a furnace or caught in a perpetual fever.
A reek of smoke and coaldust.
Reishi narrows his eyes.
His grip curls into Suoh's shirt. The collar snaps tight against the nape of his neck, but Suoh catches his wrist as he pulls up—exhales laughter like the worst kind of fool. It's impossible that he doesn't know what he's done. Worse to consider that he should have known and thought better of sabotage, and still done it on purpose.
He says the words aloud all the same. "I recall telling you," cool and unhurried, "to make it a simple break-in."
Suoh's fingers close around his wrist. A thumb slides idle against skin, and Reishi's eyes flick away from his caught eyes, his mouth. "This way was faster," that insolent tongue says. "We were getting out of town in a couple days anyway, right?"
"How helpful—you're finally contributing to the planning. Nevertheless, has it ever occurred to you to think that perhaps I arrange our exit times for a reason?"
"Still got a few hours before they catch up." The flex of Suoh's shoulders pulls through his shirt in a careless movement. He leans down again; his breath grazes Reishi's cheek, starkly. "Ah," he exhales. "Maybe just one."
Reishi's knuckles tighten. His grip knots into the collar and he yanks to twist the line against Suoh's throat before he shoves. It's a hard movement without consideration or care for reserving his strength, and he rises to a stand as Suoh stumbles backwards. Space opens up as they separate—he watches Suoh straighten, as he cocks his head without particular hostility. This much is understood: it isn't a fight—it's a warning. A dog would take note of the incident and learn.
For whole moments at a time, Reishi misses the tractability of dealing with animals that weren't a hundred and eighty-five centimeters' worth of explosives expertise and solid frustration. Those were, certainly, easier days.
He crosses the floor, seizing Suoh's shirt again, and Suoh lets him—curls a hand against his arm and allows himself to be pushed into the wall. An obnoxiously bland pattern of fleur-de-lis, creamed taupe on green, the sort of design guests are undoubtedly meant to find soothing and not rather tiresome, and none of it makes for distraction enough from the slow curl of Suoh's waiting smile.
All this for the sake of tamping down an adrenaline rush enough to stop Suoh from wrecking half the city. An outstretched arm boxes Suoh in; Reishi leans towards him. "It amazes me," he says, with the gentle air of a man pronouncing judgment, "what you'll find to get you off."
But Suoh's gripping his shirt, a leash and idle invitation both. "Hah. Don't tell me it doesn't work for you."
"As unbelievable as it might seem, I could do without this."
"It was you or another building downtown. Figured I'd go for something less loud."
The wording curls at the back of his mind: one, another; two, that what Suoh has in mind is apparently classed with the wholesale destruction of civil property. This, Reishi thinks, isn't an unrealistic assessment. "Yes," he remarks, only slightly acidic, "don't underestimate my gratitude about that."
He lets go, straightens away from the wall. Suoh doesn't. A moment passes before Reishi sighs. "You truly won't let this pass, will you."
But, of course, he isn't expecting an answer.
Suoh's hold slides onto his shoulder as Reishi tangles his hair, kisses him. It isn't something they've ever made a habit of and the clash comes too hard for his tastes, hasty and open and rough, more pressure and teeth than any normal man likes. He tightens his grip regardless, knuckles against the skull-curve, and feels his reward in Suoh's casual yield. "Have you realised," he says into Suoh's ear, "that we could be caught?"
"Isn't that what you're for? Getting us out of it?"
"Actually," Reishi tells him, blithe and unapologetic, "I think of you as the one meant for use."
He hears the smile start in Suoh's voice again like a spark. "So," he says. "Use me."
Suoh bites his shoulder as he works the jacket off, teeth scraping through the shirt. His grin curves into bone—Reishi winces beneath it, out of distaste more than pain. "Perhaps you should eat more," he starts, and the rest hooks on his teeth before he slowly reels it in; he doesn't dignify with sounds until he wants to. "At breakfast," he manages, "if you're so desperate for a bite."
One leg's already sliding between his thighs. "Why bother?" Suoh says, evenly. "There's you."
His mouth's on Reishi's throat before an answer comes to mind, sucking open, lazy kisses along the skin, too hot with the occasional scrape of teeth. There was a time when Suoh hadn't bothered with purposeful marks; Reishi's fairly certain he started just to piss him off.
Still there's the spirit of obligation to think of, and the hurry of getting this over with. He tilts his head, shrugs to let the jacket slip past his elbows, kicks it out of the way. A year ago, the sloppiness would have driven him insane—it would have forced him out to break off to lay it aside. Now he only pushes him back, slides a hand under Suoh's jacket, idle, bunching up his shirt before curving against ribs, stomach, the line of his jeans. Suoh laughs even as he shudders, low and easy, and Reishi lets his eyes lid.
Bad influences, he supposes.
For all his determination, Suoh's only half-hard when Reishi draws him out—stirs a little more as he fists the length of it, dragging palm and fingertips along his skin in a dry, detached pull. It might be nearly flattering, he supposes, how quick Suoh can be to react to him. In another universe, where he'd suffered brain damage early in life and actually gave a damn about pleasing Suoh Mikoto.
"Tell me," he says aloud, "was this meant to be an exercise in self-sabotage?" His strokes don't relent, and he watches Suoh sink against the wall, eyes lidding and breaths dragging heavier, before he carries on. "You're slow enough as things stand. We hardly have the time to go through all the petty motions. Unless you really are beginning to develop an interest in being discovered, this seems a waste of quite a bit of effort."
Suoh's laughter shivers up, splits into a groan as Reishi rubs a thumb against the slit. "You couldn't guess, huh."
"I don't count on logic with you."
"Ah," Suoh manages, but that breathes laziness more than desire. "You're easier to get to when you're worked up."
"Considering our current state of affairs, I'd say you're mistaken."
His hips jerk, a movement Reishi promptly discourages by slowing himself. Suoh's eyes flick open at once—darkly, Reishi notes with some satisfaction. But his glance doesn't linger for long. "Want me to change that?"
It has the ring of something unpleasant—attention, a fixed goal on something other than getting off with Reishi locking him in between wall and chair, Reishi's hand around him. He says, "I wouldn't recommend pressing your luck."
Abruptly, Suoh reaches out, hauls him in by the shoulder, and the movement's surprising enough that Reishi goes with the pull. "You're not that tough a read," he drawls, "Munakata. All you really wanna do... is tell me what to do, right?"
Reishi doesn't answer, but the words go on.
"Turn me around, force me down, get me braced and waiting for you... wouldn't even need me to suck you off to get you started." His voice is smoke, twists as his fingers wrap around Reishi's slackened ones, jerking him back into a harder pace. They're too close, neither flinching, and there is no opportunity in this to let his eyes drop. "Tell me not to make a sound, Munakata," his back against the wall, pulling Reishi with him, against him. "Not when you're sliding your fingers up into me, when you're putting your hands on me to hold me steady... not even when you've got me pushing against the wall and you're fucking me slow. Tell me, and I'll do it."
Reishi shudders—hates the reaction, and Suoh's low, curving voice more. "Enough," he grates, and Suoh has the temerity to laugh, a scratch of a sound that catches between their mouths.
"Still gonna say that's not doing it for you?"
"It might be worth it just to keep you from making a sound." It rings harsh even in his own ears. His fingers drag open, forcing Suoh's away. He steps back. "Turn around."
"If you're asking, Munakata."
He's already shrugging off his own jacket to cast it aside, working his jeans off from his hips in lazy tugs. Reishi nearly misses the pause as he digs into a pocket, and has to snap forward as something shining gets tossed in his direction—a knife, he thinks wildly, a miniature bomb, an antidote to insanity. But it's a small bottle instead, small and familiar.
Apparently Suoh's willing to plan for some things. Really, there's something rather depressing about the thought.
He closes his hand around it. "Not one sound," he says, and Suoh's head jerks down in tacit acknowledgment. His hands flattens out as he braces his weight, legs splayed open and arms tensing, all his self-control on display for a single command. All of this done at his instruction—and Reishi is nearly hard already at the thought, the heat of it working through his veins, easy as some schoolboy with an indulged fantasy. Obscene.
It isn't a pleasant thought to dwell on, and so he doesn't. Instead, Reishi works the cap off. The bottle spurts into his palm in a warm, generous dose—more a mess than Reishi prefers, but it can't be helped. Stepping forward, he palms up the sharp jut of a hip and back, a marked trail gleaming in his wake before he slides two fingers up to press them in. It's familiar ground, and Reishi works him open with rough, detached haste, ignoring the tension transparent through his body. It's a courtesy more than it is a real attempt to prepare him—care is for people who haven't fallen into bed with Suoh Mikoto before.
They're here at Suoh's ridiculous whim, in any case. Let him get himself off.
He feels Suoh's stifled breath at the same time that muscle clenches around him. His grip tightens a little, and he twists in deeper—knows he's struck his mark when the line of Suoh's back goes taut and taken and he pushes back onto Reishi's fingers with an exhale cut short. These are simple signs, and useful ones.
Reishi smiles, and withdraws. "Just a moment," he says, pleasantly, to Suoh's thwarted snarl. He unbelts his own trousers with care. The buckle clinks, slippery under his touch, the sound of it nearly lost beneath harsh breaths, the rasp of Suoh's fingertips drawing and clenching along the wallpaper.
For all that this was never the stalemate he'd imagined they'd come to, the rest comes readily, in steady and familiar motions. Reishi takes a beat to line up, to adjust his hold. Then he's pressing in, easy as habit, into heat and slickness, aching-tight. A hiss grits between his teeth; he draws out in fractions, pacing himself, before driving in again, and hears Suoh's unsteady laugh shake up through his frame and into his own grasp.
"I thought I told you," he manages, once he can trust himself to string the syllables with any kind of clarity, "not to make a sound."
"Didn't think—that counted. Sorry."
"How—insincere." He moves, and Suoh arches a little. "Your timing is—appalling. You're selfish. Short-sighted. And you... truly believe... that you're beyond control." His breathing shakes; Suoh's dizzyingly hot, convulsing around him with the sort of cooperation he could never be bothered to exhibit for anything that might actually matter. Reishi ducks his head down to pant, nearly grazing skin, close enough to mouth the shine from his shoulder. "You—" he manages, and shudders. "Ah."
Suoh's laugh cracks through his voice. "Done already—" he scratches out, "Munakata? Keep talking."
Reishi doesn't deign to answer the gibe in words. He clenches Suoh's hips a little harder and thrusts, feels his own momentum in the tremor that wracks Suoh with him. If he could give up everything else—the mess of it all, the marks already seething redly to life down to his collarbone, Suoh's little arrogant goads—this alone might still be worth it: these slipping heartbeats with Suoh's fingers splayed along the wallpaper, the tight bow of his spine and his panting shorting out in bursts, acknowledging in breath and body the existence of someone other than himself.
He recognises the tremble that runs, tell-tale, down his thighs and up against him, and so he's fumbling in a loose pocket, reaching forward catch it before they can incur extra charges from the motel. His hand closes at the base, drags up once and twice in rough strokes before fisting at the head, keeping it pressed against Suoh's stomach as he bucks up. In moments, Suoh's spilling into the handkerchief he'd seized at first thought. The handkerchief he can never use again and will dispose of before the day's end, ideally by furnace.
Suoh's fingers flex tight as he jerks back, and they hold together for an instant, breathing sharp. He isn't aware that his grip's unclenched, rhythm slowing, until Suoh's hand flattens over his. His eyes snap over, but Suoh's head is still bowed. A tremble passes through his legs, and Reishi can feel him stave it off, the way his whole body tightens with the strain—and he could curse this, bites his tongue to mind the words as Suoh shifts backwards, forcing speed, driving him in.
"What're you doing—slowing down?" It's half-shudder, half-laugh. "Come on, Munakata," his name like a jibe, the press and bite of the syllables obscene in that smoke-thin drawl as Suoh rocks back, "You're close already—right? Move."
It's a fool's kind of encouragement—but Suoh's always talked like a fool because he could, because he's always been able to afford it. If anybody's ever asked him to plan, to calculate, to lead, he shows no signs of it; whatever flourishes he throws in, he sees his part through without regard for anything else, and no more. He works like a ghost, immaculate and aimless—acts, every time, as if he's the single liability, the only stake set out and so an easy one to risk. Untouchable in every way—but not here, a hand still locked over Reishi's at his hip, sinking back onto him with impossible intent, trapped in place, noises wrenched out of his throat with every slam.
Reishi breaks.
The rearrangement afterwards takes place largely by reflex and instinct. His grip slackens—he pulls away, staggers his breaths into a slower pace, turning to offer time to adjust, straighten clothing, recover. There's a steady insistence in his knees to buckle. Reishi ignores it. He does, however, concede to making his way to the bed to sit down.
A meter away, the door remains unforced.
"No sirens," Suoh says—noticing, apparently, the direction of his glance. Effort beyond that seems wholly out of his range: even clothed he manages to keep the rumpled air of somebody newly-fucked against a wall, hard and thoroughly. "Guess they're having a slow day."
"A fact I wouldn't ask you to count on in the future."
"You're still complaining, huh. They didn't get to us."
"I should find you a dictionary before the next trip," Reishi says eventually. "Bookmark 'precautions'." He strips off his glasses to clean the lenses, recalls the cause to which his handkerchief was sacrificed, and dourly replaces them. This done, he braces his hands along the mattress's edge and allows himself the leisure of letting his head drop. "You do," he says, spent even to his own ear, "make me wonder sometimes."
"Ah," Suoh sighs. "Now you're really overthinking it."
But the words brace him up, keep him steady; it isn't the content Suoh will recall later, in any case. Reishi straightens. "Sometimes," he goes on, with the serene tones of a man who recognises that his chances of an attentive audience are low, "I wonder whether things might have been better in other circumstances."
"Like?"
He nearly stops there: the idea hadn't run this far. But he finds himself answering all the same, the words drifting to his tongue. "If they'd turned out in other ways," Reishi says, slow. "If we were born elsewhere, raised to be different things, where we didn't become what we are now. If we hadn't become thieves, I suppose."
"Think those versions of you're doing better with me?"
This warrants a glance up—but Suoh's still slouching by the wall, looking at him with the kind of fixed intent Reishi's never quite known how to read. As if there might have been a missed sign between them somehow; as if there's something Suoh's recognised in him that he hasn't learned yet himself. "They must be," he says at last, unflinching. It comes out dry as sand, glass, rubble. "It's difficult to imagine that they could do much worse."
Suoh only laughs, and crosses the floor after him.