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Riku knows Sion. Dog-eared and underlined.
They met in their first year of college—at the point in time when Riku was still reserved, and Sion decided there was a kind of pearl inside Riku worth witnessing in its whole dimension.
When they moved into the same narrow apartment, they shoved two twin beds together to mimic a king in Riku’s room even though they had separate spaces, and for the first few months Sion could only sleep if he curled his fingers around Riku’s under the blanket. His thumb brushed over knuckles until the day’s tension drained out of his body and his breathing synced with Riku’s rise and fall.
Sion was the one who helped Riku through freshman chaos, the one who made space for Riku in every corner of his life without hesitation. They cooked the same meals. They had the same zip code. They shared earbuds that traded back and forth until the wires were permanently knotted.
In fact, Riku has heard and seen more of Sion than he probably should, compared to his other friends. Sion’s life simply spills into Riku’s space by default, steadily enough that certain things just exist unquestioned. They talk about hookups they had or didn’t have without shame. They change shirts in the same room without thinking.
It's normal for Sion to pad into Riku’s room to flop face-down onto the mattress and vent about whatever mood has gotten the better of him—and vice versa. Sometimes his sorrowful voice gets muffled by the pillow until Riku’s hand finds the nape of his neck, thumb pressing slow circles until the rant dissolves into a sigh.
On buses home after long days, when Riku falls asleep, Sion tilts a shoulder toward him, then takes responsibility for watching the streets and shaking him awake at the right stop. On mornings before Sion’s haircut appointment, Riku sits on the couch behind a cross-legged Sion on the living room floor, fingers sectioning hair into three or four thin braids that Sion will undo before he leaves, leaving behind the faintest waves that only Riku ever gets close enough to really appreciate.
Affection is natural for them. Any type of it.
One day, Riku came home from a volleyball match with the taste of failure thick in his throat. His team had lost in straight sets and the coach’s whistle still shrieked in his ears. He didn’t mean to start, just needing the tension gone, so he threw himself onto the bed and peeled his clothes down to his boxers. The apartment was dark except for the strip of light under the bathroom door in the hallway—Sion was showering. He could be quick.
He bit his lip as his hips rolled into his own fist. It was all mechanical, really, nothing more than release, until Sion’s voice from earlier looped in his head, “You’re your team’s ace, Riku,” when Sion had taken Riku’s cheeks, warm from embarrassment and failure, into his hands. When Sion’s eyes looked so sincere. Riku pumped faster.
He was close, embarrassingly fast, when the shower cut off. Riku shut his eyes tighter, hand still wrapped around himself, pulse hammering in his ears as Sion approached. Riku could feel the weight of Sion’s stare even through the dark. He froze mid-stroke, holding his breath.
“Everything okay? Do you need help?” Sion probably had a towel knotted around his waist then. He didn’t turn on the light. Riku’s throat worked as he managed a tiny nod against the pillow, his face burning. A pause, then the mattress dipped on Sion’s side—he sat with his back to Riku, giving him the illusion of privacy. “You can keep going. I’m not looking.”
Riku obeyed. He was mildly upset at the answer, honestly. Deep down, Riku wanted Sion to look. He returned stroking in small, tentative stutters first, then in a steadier rhythm once his brain grasped the fantasy that Sion could've lied to focus on his movements instead. He tried to push the thought away, but it clung and lingered to make the next stroke slicker.
“That’s good,” Sion murmured. “Can you do it slower?”
Riku was good at waiting, at holding for good timing. Sion kept talking—how he was proud of him for the match, how much he liked to see him play. None of it had any correlation to Riku getting himself off in their shared beds, but it swelled something huge in his chest, warm and overwhelming, and embarrassment flooded him as he realized he was about to come to Sion’s voice so quickly as if it were Sion’s hand wrapped around him. He wanted to go slow, to drag the attention out, and maybe Sion knew that.
Sion offered a fix that night. No touching, no eye contact, just an aid to relieve stress, something to make him feel less frustrated, and Riku accepted. Sion whispered instructions and praises, and Riku listened, of course, nodded into the dark and came to the hush of Sion’s encouragement with a groan into the pillow, body going lax.
They didn’t touch each other, and Riku couldn’t bring himself to look. Sion just helped him get off—and Riku thrived under his guidance. And he liked it. He felt his cheeks aflame against the pillow.
“Night, Riku.” Sion didn’t move for a long moment before ruffling Riku’s hair with a faint scrape of nails and retreating to the bathroom. Water began running again after the door clicked shut and Riku simply stared at the wall with a pounding heart. His stomach was a mess of cooling, tacky streaks, so he took the opportunity to clean himself. It was a little disgusting.
When Sion flopped onto the bed later, Riku wondered then if something had changed. If something would. The courage to ask eluded him; instead, he rolled onto his side, facing Sion’s profile, craving the proximity again even as guilt nipped at him.
In the morning, they muttered good morning to each other and Sion beelined to make his coffee as they got ready for the day. It was normal.
They never brought it up, never asked what it could mean, so it became one of those things that simply found its place in the rhythm of their routine. That’s the strange thing about their friendship—it runs on closeness and the things they don’t really talk about, because Riku doesn’t want to admit he wants the names to matter, and Riku doesn’t want to break the balance they’ve spent years perfecting.
It was already difficult enough for Riku, who always felt pleasantly scrutinized under Sion’s gaze; there was something about his spark that ignited him to flee. He whipped his head, let Sion burn holes in his temples, even though somewhere along the way he’d made peace with the fact that he liked being watched like that, liked being taken in.
So after being seen and heard so thoroughly, responding and coming so easily to his hyung’s voice echoing in his ears, it somehow became worse. Much worse. Because now Sion has heard him. Sion has seen Riku break to the sound of his own name in Riku’s mouth, seen him affected by Sion. And now Riku squirms under the weight of it everyday when he avoids Sion’s eyes more than ever and has to stare at his collarbone, shoes, ear, instead.
Riku thinks about bravery in strange moments.
Sion is unrestrained when he falls asleep on Riku’s shoulder during a movie, when he pushes his coffee cup to Riku’s lips, reassuring that it’s not that strong today!—when Sion waits outside the lecture hall with an extra scarf once the weather turns cruel, tugging Riku close to wrap it around his neck. Riku thinks about how easily Sion reaches for him, how naturally his voice softens when he says his name.
Riku realizes that what he’s come to crave isn’t just Sion’s company, but rather the proximity that becomes a trap he willingly steps into. It becomes a trap the moment Riku flirts with him unpretentiously and doesn’t expect Sion to flirt back ten times harder than Riku started. He gets awfully flustered and backs away, to which all Sion can do is laugh with all his teeth, beckon him closer by the shoulders to his sun-made orbit and try to make up for Riku’s embarrassment with his sweet voice. Over and over again.
He doesn’t get tired of it, nor does Sion, apparently, but Riku’s heart does strain from all the wildly beating.
The awareness burns, yes. It makes Riku feel smaller and smaller, yet it’s never diminishing—because Sion has never seen him as anything less than strong—but it’s like if he pressed himself smaller, folding in on himself compact and pliable, it would allow Sion to take Riku into his hands, cradle him against his chest, bury him in the hollow between his ribs where his heartbeat echoes stronger. To be kept safe, to be molded and cherished.
It fills him with a dizzying heat that begins as embarrassment and ends as this, apparently.
Now, the night is quiet except for the low hum of other people’s music bleeding from down the hall. Riku sits cross-legged with his right wrist supported by a pillow on his lap—he’s been sidelined since accidentally injuring himself at practice earlier in the week. It has left him annoyed and restless, and now he has to watch the season continue without him, and all the pent-up tension in his body has nowhere to go, so he bounces his knees mindlessly. It’s nothing serious, his injury, but bad enough to irritate him, Sion can tell.
On his side, Sion hunches over a small metal tray balanced on his bed. His necklace dangles forward, catching the dim light each time he moves as he works the paper between his fingers. He hums under his breath while tapping the last of the weed down, licking the edge. He lifts up his gaze when he does, and watches the flickering blue light of a YouTube video reflect in Riku’s eyes even though the laptop is placed in the middle of the bed.
“Can we share that?” Riku asks. He’s never smoked weed before, just an occasional post-practice cigarette, rare enough that the taste still surprises him. He always wanted to try anyway.
As soon as Sion’s done, he unfolds to lean back against the wall. Sion holds the joint toward him. “Come here.”
When Riku raises his hand to take it, Sion is already guiding it between Riku’s lips.
He inhales—it’s scratchier than he’s used to, the smoke barely making it past his throat before he coughs, shoulders jerking. Sion’s laugh comes out fonder. He reaches over, covering Riku’s hand with his own to steady it.
Sion grew accustomed to becoming the one being looked up to—on the court, among friends, in every group that seemed to orbit his calmness. People listened when he spoke, laughed when he did. So when Sion tells him how to breathe—slowly, try not coughing this time, but it’s alright if you do—Riku listens. His eyes stay fixed on Sion’s lips as if the words themselves were physical things.
“You’re bossy when you get high,” Riku mumbles, but he’s smiling now, and Sion hears it.
“Hyung’s just taking care of you,” Sion replies sweetly, a little like scolding.
And when Riku inhales and exhales just right, a small look of pride flickers across Sion’s face, his eyes growing big and bright from a smile that brings a spark to Riku’s chest in a dizzying warmth that sits too close to wanting. Sion guides Riku’s hand, lingers on his jaw, attentively watches him inhaling—it puts him in a position of control, of focus, Riku knows.
They pass it back and forth. Sion talks, gestures lazily, and Riku finds himself watching the slimness of his wrists, hearing his rings clink against each other. His brain feels stretched thin, slowed down, as if tugged until it’s elastic, and all those tiny invisible gaps between his thoughts are filled with Sion’s voice.
Riku’s eyes unfocus and focus until he catches a blur of color beneath the mess of notebooks and loose papers that perpetually threaten to fall off Sion’s desk. He recognizes the faded lettering on the fabric.
Riku squints. His voice comes out lower than he intended. “Is that my hoodie? What’s it doing over here?”
“You left it here for two weeks.”
Riku scrunches up his nose in fake disgust. “You wore it.”
“It was cold!” Sion protests, eyes going wide and defensive, and Riku thinks, god, he’s so cute like this. He wishes he could eat them, somehow. “You didn’t even miss it. For two weeks, you didn’t even think about getting it back.”
“If you wanted it for you, you could’ve asked.”
“Would you have said no?” Sion’s eyebrows raise like he’s pestering him. Riku likes it.
Riku hesitates before his head lolls a little to one side. “Probably.”
Sion shakes his head as if he’s seriously disappointed. He stretches with a grunt, arms over his head, and his shirt rides up just enough to reveal the thin line of skin above his waistband as he sits up properly. Riku always complained about his bad posture. When the fabric falls back into place, covering Sion's stomach from his prying eyes, Riku feels an absurd, fleeting sting of frustration, as if something has been taken from him. He wishes the shirt hadn’t fallen so fast.
“Well, I don’t believe you.” There’s a playful tilt in his tone, and Riku giggles, his shoulders rising as if Sion had said something incredibly funny.
Riku feels it in his chest again, a strange pressure, a restless, fluttering thing that seems to live there whenever Sion’s near, like a small creature inside his ribs—something light and ridiculous, made of bubbles and laughter and a kind of giddiness that never sits still.
Whenever he’s around Sion, it’s like that creature takes over. A soft, clumsy part of himself has learned how to move only in reaction to Sion, and it makes him a little stupid. In front of their friends, in front of his own dignity. It makes his smile come easier, his words blurrier, his chest feel fuller. Riku thinks, maybe, it could be the weed making him looser now, but it doesn’t feel new at all.
Sion moves unhurried, spreading his legs comfortably on the bed from where he leans into the wall. His shorts are ridden up, clinging and folding on the ripeness of his thighs. Riku stares and refuses to move. The fabric stretches at every movement and strains around his crotch, and Riku’s mind goes blank. Sion is now talking about how his professor must’ve mixed up his grading for an assignment and Riku feels stupid for gawking.
His eyes keep finding their way back to Sion’s thighs and the faint swell near the waistband. His focus fractures and reforms as heat somewhere lower. Riku imagines, just for a second, sliding the back of his knuckles against his thigh. He can almost feel the heat radiating off Sion’s skin, the way the muscle would tense under his touch then relax as he’d open his legs a little wider, inviting. Sion would squirm a little, maybe, trying to fight back the goosebumps.
Riku swallows instinctively and it’s too thick in his throat. He almost chokes on his own saliva. He has seen Sion’s thighs even when they were bare of fabric before.
It’s just something that happens when you live with someone, and Riku tells himself that watching Sion at basketball practice is about friendship. It’s what friends do for each other even across different sports. He shows up with tired legs, slouched on the metal bleachers after his volleyball practice, still damp with sweat, pretending to be busy on his phone while Sion runs across the court.
Riku has always noticed the fabric clinging dark where sweat gathers. He knows the weight of Sion’s leg thrown over his own during post-game stretches and had felt the heat of it pressed against the back of his thighs on nights after the radiator failed.
Riku tells himself that the way he watches is admiration. Friend admiration. Safe and tidy.
It’s normal to be drawn to how he moves. Riku is an athlete too; he understands the beauty of movement, the way bodies are built for rhythm and energy. Admiration makes sense. That’s what he repeats in his head whenever Sion wipes sweat off his face with the hem of his jersey and he physically can’t move his eyes away from him; his eyes follow the shape of Sion’s thighs up to where the fabric creases, clings, releases. Everyone looks at Sion, he argues. Everyone notices him. It’s normal to watch your friend’s body.
Most days, as the light falls low enough that everything feels slowed after practice ends, Sion jogs toward him, shirt untucked, hair pushed back, laughing at something one of the players shouts behind him. They walk home together. He puts an arm around Riku’s shoulders, beckons him closer, and Riku guesses this is their friendship, after all.
Riku shifts as he tries to ease the tightness in his shorts. It’s different from the other times they’ve gotten off in the same room—Riku told himself it was never about Sion then. But he’s getting hard now, and it is because of Sion, and Riku thinks about jumping off the window.
“Riku-yah,” Sion calls, voice sweet. “You good?”
Riku’s nod is too quick, slightly startled by the careful way Sion’s eyes search his face. The heat in his belly doesn’t fade.
“Are you high already?”
Riku hesitates before ducking his chin, suddenly coy as he fights back a smile, and murmurs, “Maybe.”
Sion hums and tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes. From his peripheral vision, Riku sees a smile beginning to sprout on Sion’s face, beautiful teeth and plump lips. It makes Riku’s stomach clench, like he’s bracing for impact. Riku’s nail digs into the skin of his elbow as he scratches it. He’s thankful that the pillow covers his crotch.
”You are, look at you,” Sion coos. The rasp in his throat makes the words sound different. “Your face is so red.”
Sion presses his palm lightly to his cheek, warm and familiar, and Riku leans into it when a thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. In fact, Riku feels his skin flaming, a feverish kind of heat that creeps from his neck to his ears, and wonders if it’s enough of a burn for Sion to pull back from the touch. He wishes he wouldn’t.
It’s only when his bent knee is on top of Sion’s thigh that Riku registers just how snugly they’re pressed together. They’ve done this a billion times before, leaning into the other’s space, just never quite like this. The haze of smoke makes everything slower. Sion lets his hand drop from Riku’s face, raising the joint to his lips again.
That feeling wriggles and expands, crowding up inside his lungs until it makes him want to do something silly just to release it.
“You started going back to the gym,” Riku blurts and regrets it immediately. It’s admiration.
Sion stretches out his leg, extending it in front of him as he lifts the hem of his shorts a little higher up. The fabric pulls tight, creasing around the muscle, and he flexes just enough for the definition to show. He’s satisfied with himself. “I’m going again, yeah.”
Riku’s tongue stalls mid-sentence. “They’re… really nice.”
There’s a minuscule, twitching lift of Sion’s eyebrows, like he’s more pleased than surprised. Sion’s not surprised at all, actually. “My thighs?”
Riku shifts his hips minutely, a palm smoothing over the pillow. He has to repair the damage. “I—uh… I mean, they look good. The gym is really paying off,” he adds quickly and nods again as if it’s a normal observation. It should be. Good job, Riku!
Riku compliments him all the time, really. It’s not surprising to either of them. The words slip out easily when Sion wakes up with his hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other; when Sion closes his eyes while eating and his lashes fan dark against his cheeks. And every time Sion answers with that full-throated laugh and Riku, you’re so cute, Riku has to stare at the floor and pray for any divine intervention to strike him down.
He's captivating, it's the truth. Riku finds enormous comfort in how Sion takes care of him, leans into his space, fits neatly into his world, makes room for himself without rearranging anything. Well, except for the little creature inside Riku’s ribcage, growing and growing stubbornly with that familiar flutter of panic and excitement, filling his senses to the point of inaction.
He could use some bravery.
Sion offers a smile that makes his cheekbones round under his eyes, and Riku fights the urge to press his thumb on the swell. Sion leans forward—his eyes are amused. “Well, thank you.”
Riku is already squirmish when he feels Sion’s free hand in his hair, tangling into the strands on his nape. He turns his head without thinking and finds Sion watching him closely enough that Riku instinctively yanks his head back to its original position, staring at the wall in front of him, but the hand on his nape sneaks around his neck, fingers pressing on his jaw to force Riku’s eyes in his direction, and Riku could swear he has never been so hard in his life. He’s pent-up, honestly. He can’t touch himself and Sion is not being nice.
And somewhere in this haze, Riku remembers loudly that he likes it—likes the heat and the closeness pressing in from all sides, the way Sion’s gaze can corner him, how being flustered under his scrutiny makes heat pool in his belly. It’s a sick thing to enjoy, but Sion seems to enjoy it even more, really.
So instead of looking into his eyes, Riku counts the freckles under his eyes, on his chin, on the curve of his ear. Sion’s free hand progressively slides lower until it finds the waistband of his own boxers and he groans.
The last time they’d jerked off at the same time was months ago, which happened as an adrenaline-fueled response under the dim locker room light after Riku’s winning match, and now they can’t do it together because Riku’s right wrist still aches if he bends it the wrong way. The thought of touching himself with his non-dominant hand makes him cringe, and Sion is breathing against his mouth now, palming himself lazily and slowed down by the weed, and he doesn’t know what to do.
Sion’s wrist flexes and the motion pulls the fabric tight across his knuckles, outlining his fist. Riku has seen this before, he reminds himself. Sion had always been quieter then, like he never wanted to fill up too much space—but the soft hitch in his breath is familiar some days. The hand holding him by his jaw is familiar on other days. Just not juxtaposed like this.
It’s nothing new, really. So he decides, like always, that it’s nothing.
Sion’s lips brush against Riku’s cheek, mouthing at his jaw, and the wetness goes straight down to his groin. Riku gasps and then Sion’s lips are against his own; not kissing, not applying pressure. Just there, and a little taste of skin has him wondering what it’d be like to actually devour him. He feels the plumpness of Sion’s lips more than he can see it. Riku licks his own lips, a subconscious flick, and Sion mirrors the motion, their tongues brushing for one second. He takes it as permission.
And they’re kissing.
Riku’s never been this hard, not even close, not even in the nights he touched himself to Sion’s voice. His cock strains with every slide of lips and drag of tongue, heat building and building, and the wet moan that escapes him vibrates straight into Sion’s mouth, leaving him dizzy and unsure whether Sion is pulling him closer or leaning in again.
When Sion’s hand tightens in his hair, the thoughts in his head scatter completely, and there’s a pulse of warmth down Riku’s spine, his body reacting before his mind can catch up. His uninjured hand grips tightly on Sion’s shirt to bring him closer while the sore wrist itches to reach under his own waistband and follow Sion’s motion, but he can’t. A frustrated whine vibrates against Sion’s lips.
Riku can hear his own heart pounding in his ears and the slickness from Sion’s hand around himself. He’s right there, inches from Riku’s hip, the heat of it radiating through the thin cotton of Sion’s boxers and shorts. The pulse in his groin is a swollen ache that throbs and begs for contact, but all he can do is press his thighs together in the search for any friction. And Sion’s lips are so sweet and pliant against his, slick with spit and the lingering taste of weed, Riku can’t contain himself.
Without thinking, his hand releases Sion’s shirt, trembling as it brushes along Sion’s thigh and swipes swiftly under his loose shorts before pressing fully against the ripe skin of his outer thigh. He rubs the flesh, feeling the goosebumps under his touch, just like he’d imagined, and Sion groans as the movements of his hand picking up the pace sound wetter, overwhelming to Riku’s ears.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he somehow can’t pinpoint what led them to this point. He can only imagine how pitiful Sion’s shorts look right now; waistband pulled down just enough to expose his cock, precum leaking and trailing down, and Riku’s hand is so high up under his shorts he could pin him down with one grip. He could wrap his fingers around Sion’s cock, even, if he wanted to.
Every responsive noise, every tremor of muscle as Sion squirms instinctively beneath his touch land inside Riku like permission and shock. Sion wants him right now too; he’s affected by Riku’s touch and it makes his stomach twist with nerves and want. Everything feels hot, from his own cheeks and neck to the tender skin of Sion’s inner thigh, and Riku’s sure his own back is sweaty from restraint alone.
The rhythm of Sion’s hand falters into something jagged as he grows needier, impatient like he can’t decide whether to chase Riku’s lips or pant open-mouthed against the damp curve of his cheek. His hips involuntarily snap forward, grinding into Riku’s grip on his thigh, but nails dig into the skin as a weak attempt to hold him still. The contact rips a moan from Sion’s throat, but it fractures mid-air, splintering into a high whimper that vibrates through both of them.
Sion breaks with a choked sound and Riku feels the tremor in his thighs ripple under his palm. Cum spills over Sion’s fist, some of it streaking Riku’s wrist where it’s wedged under the shorts as he strokes the last pulses of release. Sion’s mouth goes slack against his, lips open and panting and breaking the kiss, but he still tries to chase after Riku on instinct.
The room is silent except for Sion’s ragged breathing and Riku’s own pulse in his ears. The hand under Sion’s shorts retracts as a chain of what the fuck ricochets through Riku's skull, and the automatic clarity is sharp and disorienting. Sion’s mouth has been on his, open and wet and real, Riku had licked inside it because he wanted to and now the taste of him is still there, clinging to the back of Riku’s tongue. He still has to carry on with his night.
He decides, again, that it’s nothing.
“What was that? Four seconds?” Riku’s voice sounds hoarse under a chuckle and he doesn’t like it. His lips still tingle from the kiss, red, swollen and tasting like Sion, and for one dizzying second he has the absurd urge to lean forward again, just to see if kissing him again could ease the knot that’s forming in his chest and tightening and tightening.
“Shut up.”
It has no bite and Sion looks so cute, obviously, trying to act normal. Just like Riku. His ears are flushed a deep red and Riku can’t bring himself to look into it for over one millisecond.
Riku’s skin prickles, suddenly acutely aware of everything—his boxers cling damp to his skin, there’s the dullest ache in his wrist and the tent in his own pants hasn’t gone down not even a little. At some point, the pillow must’ve shifted from Riku’s squirming and he finds himself more exposed. It’s worse. He just kissed his best friend and he’ll wake up tomorrow the same way he just woke up today. He takes a deep breath.
In the back of his mind, Riku feels like crying, surprisingly not because of Sion. Or because of what their friendship has become now.
It was difficult enough bearing the weight of calling it friendship even when they both knew how the other looked and sounded like when they came. In hindsight, this knowledge feels less embarrassing to face than kissing and desiring to kiss Sion again—now it’s messier, more exposing. But Riku is hard and really, really needs to get off, and he can feel the sting of tears prickling behind his eyes as he squirms.
Sion’s cock is out of his sight now, which makes things a little bit easier to go through. But Sion’s eyes drag downward to Riku’s crotch, a writhing, needy thing, and just when Riku thinks he might actually combust, Sion’s gaze flicks back up to his face.
“Do you want hyung to—”
And the question isn’t even finished before Riku nods eagerly with big, pleading eyes and Sion is already shifting forward until he climbs onto his lap. Riku realizes he doesn’t care, really.
The mattress dips under their combined weight, knees bracketing Riku’s hips as the pillow is moved to the other side of the bed. Sion holds out a hand, palm open, expectantly. Riku looks up and furrows his brows.
“Spit on hyung’s hand,” Sion explains.
Even after everything, Riku is a little weirded out for the first time tonight. Sion has the remains of his own cum on his palm and it should be gross, but he’s also a little high, spiraling, and the ache in his cock is almost consuming him, so he decides he can have this. Only for tonight. Riku obliges and spits a generous amount of saliva into Sion’s outstretched hand.
When Sion’s hand slips down into his pants, Riku realizes that’s the biggest mistake he has ever made in his life. Sion is straddling him, chest and face inches from Riku’s face, and there’s nowhere to look other than Sion and his gaze and everything’s so overwhelming now. So Riku shuts his eyes tightly, grips the sheets to the feeling of Sion’s slicked up hand stroking him—slicked up with his own spit and Sion’s cum, Riku belatedly remembers, and he ducks his head down as his stomach flips at the thought.
Sion’s hand moves, the drag of spit and cum making every stroke louder. Riku’s hips tremble involuntarily as he tries to chase the pressure, and leans forward to bury his face in the damp crook of Sion’s neck just to hide a moan behind his teeth. He has to last longer than Sion. He has to. This is a competition now, even if Sion doesn’t know it.
“It’s such a shame you can’t even use your own hand right now, isn’t it?” Sion murmurs, and there’s a pitiful lilt to it, feeding and pumping Riku’s heart faster. “But don’t worry. Hyung is here. Hyung will do it for you.”
Warm puffs of breath hit against the crown of his head where Sion’s mouth hovers, lips brushing damp strands of hair. Riku doesn’t understand why Sion is almost as worked up as him. Sion cards his free hand through Riku’s sweat-matted bangs to slightly push his head back and reveal his face, his glassy eyes—and it feels so tender and misplaced in this moment that Riku wants to kiss him again as Sion picks up the pace, flicking his wrist. He could do it. He could lean in. He could take.
Sion doesn’t apply pressure to redirect his eyes; instead, he lets the bangs fall back before pressing his thumb down on Riku’s plush lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the wet heat within, and a soft, involuntary sound escapes before Riku can suppress it.
Riku likes this feeling. He likes the buzzing under his skin, the fogginess behind his eyes. He likes being handled and touched, being guided by Sion’s tempo rather than choosing his own. He likes the weight of Sion on him, likes the smell of Sion, likes Sion. He likes his hyung, whose thighs tremble on top of him, needy just like himself. Something about him is so magnetizing. It makes Riku nervous. This whole thing does.
He feels like combusting, really, and the only reason he can’t buck his hips up and fuck into Sion’s fist is the grounding weight on his lap that pins him down, but Riku itches to move, itches to grasp something, so his left hand flies up to Sion’s hip, holding and pulling him closer as his thumb digs into the sharp jut of bone.
Sion has truly no reason to moan but he does, low into Riku’s ear. His tongue darts out to lick the skin between Riku’s earrings, pulling the lobe into his mouth to suck on it, and the heat of it sends a shiver down his spine. Riku whimpers, the sound high and needy. He’s louder like this, whinier when someone else’s hands are on him.
There’s something intoxicating about it, in how transparently beautiful it is to just sit there, pliant and pampered, letting his dependable hyung do all the work. Riku is a little desperate, sure, but Sion looks far worse, this eager thing who gets off on being useful, on helping, on coaxing gasps out of Riku with a determined hand even after his own orgasm.
Sion’s face crowds him so closely that his breath brushes Riku’s upper lip, but he doesn’t move forward. “Do you want something?” he whispers, thumb still hovering above Riku’s lip. “Tell hyung.”
Sion is so gentle. Riku’s eyes are half-lidded and unfocused and he’s drunk with it. Riku wants to close the gap. Wants to feel the shape and swell of Sion’s lips again, but he doesn’t move, and he won’t tell Sion.
A plea tries to claw its way up his throat and he has to swallow hard to keep it from leaving his mouth. It comes out disguised as a strangled moan when Sion’s hand squeezes around the tip of his cock. He wants to ask Sion to kiss him again. He wants to kiss Sion. But kissing again would be greedy. Kissing again would shatter the fragile justification that this is just another step of stress relief, the same they went through after Riku lost that match, after he won the other, after Sion had a bad date. They’re doing this now because Sion started it, Riku is injured and Sion is respectful, even if unconventionally.
Even if Sion started it, it’s not Riku’s place to continue, somehow.
So he nods to Sion pumping him faster. He doesn’t answer what he really wants to. Riku likes being denied something, even if he’s doing it to himself—it makes him a little sweeter.
He doesn’t realize Sion has eased the pressure on his lap just a fraction until his hand slows, just enough to make Riku’s hips chase the friction with an unrestrained jerk that earns a soft, approving hum against his ear.
Sion’s hand eases into a languid glide that makes Riku’s hips search the warmth of his fist instead. Riku’s gasps are almost swallowed by the wet sounds filling the room, the rhythm of skin on skin, spit and precum and the faint rasp of fabric bunching lower on Riku’s thighs.
“Is it better?” Sion murmurs, voice still broken. Riku nods and obeys—there was no command, but he knows that Sion is making him work for it, even for a little. He obeys.
But Sion sits down again and Riku’s thighs tremble under his weight, muscles locked tight, every nerve screaming for release and aggravated by Sion’s palm on his stomach. Sion looks almost innocent as he flicks his wrist, thumb swiping over the head when Riku tries to meet him with his hips desperately. His movements get sloppier, less coordinated, and Riku nods repeatedly, pressed to Sion’s shoulder, letting out gasps from exertion.
He’s close. So close the edges of his vision blur, Riku can’t form words anymore. His fingers dig into Sion’s hip, holding him just to give him enough space for the desperate roll of his hips. Sion gives it. He always gives it. His wrist snaps faster, grip tightening just enough to border on too much, and the coil in Riku’s belly winds impossibly tighter.
Riku’s brain lags, and it takes a delayed second to register Sion’s free hand slipping under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up until it bunches at Riku’s shoulder and cool air hits his quivering stomach. Riku feels frenzied because what the fuck?, and he’s shortly aware of himself when his orgasm breaks him with a high whine on his throat.
He feels overwhelmingly warm, from the stimulation and shame from exposition all at once. A few drops of cum splatter on Sion’s hands, and he wipes it on his own shorts mindlessly because they're already a mess anyway. Sion’s eyes don't leave the exposed tummy.
“What?” Riku breathes out and he sounds almost a little crazy.
His chest heaves, movement restrained by Sion’s hand that applies pressure against his shoulder to the wall. Sion is looking down at his stomach almost in a trance, like he’s not even aware he’s pushing him, and Riku feels like he’s being pinned down to the wall. He lets out a groan as he squirms.
“I just wanted to see it. Sorry,” Sion mumbles sheepishly as he still keeps Riku’s shirt rucked high with one hand, fingers hooked tightly in the fabric. He doesn’t move to let it go.
When Riku looks down, most of his spend is streaked across his stomach in uneven ropes; some already drying at the edges, others sliding down with every heave of his chest toward the waistband of his boxers. He never did it to himself before—he prefers catching it in his hand to avoid any mess on the sheets or his clothes. But now, as he stares at his skin glistened and slick with sweat, pearlescent against the flushed gold of his skin that catches the dim lamplight in slow, glittering trails, Riku just sighs. Somehow it makes sense that Sion would want to see this. What a weirdo.
Sion blinks and lets the hem settle crooked, still exposing his stomach. His hand lingers on the slope of Riku’s waist.
“Nothing,” he says, voice quiet. “Forget it. Stay here.”
After Sion shifts off his lap, Riku tries to force his lungs into a plausible rhythm. The afterglow buzzes through his skin along with the smells of cum and sweat and the burn of the joint they shared, and the world is slightly underwater.
The mattress creaks under Sion’s weight again, and he has a box of wipes in hands. He draws one out and starts cleaning Riku up, because of course Sion has decided he wants to handle it. Riku just lies there and lets him. The cloth is cool against overheated skin. He watches Sion’s brows slightly knit in concentration, and he doesn’t seem to care about the mess in his own shorts, more focused on wiping Riku’s stomach. Riku is glad he’s not on the laundry duty this week.
There’s a strange mix of tenderness and stupidity and thrill and guilt pulsing with the weight of what just happened. He isn’t sure if he regrets any of it yet, or if regret is even the right category—it doesn’t fit.
He should have more tools to name this, but the truth is: he still doesn’t know what to do with wanting things. Wanting Sion. His best friend. So he does what he has always done when something feels too large, too unmanageable—he shoves the entire realization into the smallest drawer possible and slams it shut.
Until Sion opens his mouth.
“You know, this could be a thing.”
Riku tries to breathe slowly, he really tries, but his heart is still punching against ribs, and he actually thinks maybe he should get up and find a cigarette. A real cigarette.
Riku’s throat works around a sound that comes out thin and cracked. “What.”
“You know how we’ve both been pent-up. No boyfriends or whatever.” Sion gestures vaguely between them. “This could be a thing.”
Riku blinks once, twice, the room tilting gently, and then he nods slowly. Sion retracts to the bathroom with the box of tissues. “Yeah. That’s… that’s a good idea.”
“Nothing crazy, obviously.” It echoes a little through the bathroom walls. There’s a tilt in his voice, something close to shaking. “We can help each other out… you know… like that.”
“Yeah,” Riku repeats. He smacks his lips together as if he could taste the shape of the situation. Agreeing to be purely carnal with your best friend isn’t smart. It tastes surprisingly bitter. But his egoistic mind drowns out the rational side when he blurts out, “Like friends with benefits.”
Riku thinks they should’ve had this conversation a year ago. Maybe not necessarily with this conclusion. But he agrees. Establishing it as a thing, whatever shape it takes, implies more than nothing. Riku can work with that. He can fold the wanting smaller and disguise it for now. Sion started it, and Sion offered first, so—
“Exactly,” Sion croaks out. Riku doesn’t think this conversation is intelligent by any means—god, they’re high and just jerked each other off. The memory of Sion’s hand twisting his cock still flashes hot behind his eyes. “That should be cool.”
Sion seems mildly satisfied with the conversation when he returns to stub out what’s left of the joint in the tray in the middle of the bed. Thankfully, the tray was far enough from them that the ash never threatened the sheets.
“Alright. Go to your room. You’re not allowed to sleep here,” Sion says, nudging Riku’s calf, though his voice has no bite. He moves both the tray and the laptop from the bed to the desk.
Riku moves to lie on his stomach and slurs slowly into the pillow, “You’ll move me?”
“Yeah,” Sion says, stretching again as he stands, reaching for the wardrobe to change into clean shorts. “I’ll move you. Eventually.”
Riku stares at his back for a second, his brain caught between mild irritation and fondness. He feels a little like falling.
There’s something boyish in the way Riku’s eyes are glossy and soft from the high, and he still has it in him to form the most shameless, theatrical pout in his life. It’s the kind of expression that should embarrass him—lower lip swollen and jutted out exaggeratedly, and eyes carrying the faux innocence of a hurt kitten, all while pressed to the pillow. The little creature in his chest allows him to be ridiculous around Sion, to be seen.
When Sion turns, blanket in hand, the expression cracks him open: a bright, helpless laugh spills out straight from his chest and climbs until his shoulders shake. Like this, Sion blooms like a flower under sunlight. Riku’s pout helplessly dissolves into a smile.
“You’re hopeless.” There’s still remains of his laugh in his voice. Riku hums faintly in response and closes his eyes when a finger pokes the swell of his cheek. Everything should be normal.
Sion tosses the blanket over Riku before turning off the lights. There’s still the distant whir of the city outside, the steady rhythm of their breathing, then the weight of the bed dipping as Sion climbs in. His hand ghosts over Riku’s lower back after he pulls up the blanket to his shoulders.
He leaves a careful hand-width of space that lasts all of three seconds before Riku sighs and flips onto his back. He lets his head tip sideways until it rests against the slope of Sion’s shoulder. In a single bed, they don’t have much space to take advantage of anyway. Might as well—Riku indulges himself with his cheek pressed to the soft cotton of Sion’s shirt.
Sion’s hand finds Riku’s hair, fingers smoothing the sweaty strands back with the same familiar gentleness before it retracts.
Riku knows Sion can’t see him, so he keeps his eyes open and fights with what’s left in his consciousness to make out his face in the dark. He traces the curve of his mouth relaxed in sleep. He wants to kiss him again. The want is not new, he realizes, but it’s newly loud and like a bruise blooming under his ribs. He knows how his best friend tastes and he doesn’t know how to deal with this—though he should. Probably.
Tomorrow they’ll bump shoulders in the kitchen and decide who’s going to fix the blender with rock paper scissors. If Riku loses, he’ll slouch his shoulders, pout ridiculously, and Sion will pat his butt as consolation. Tomorrow their friendship will still be there. Solid, familiar, safe. It never scared him as much as it does now.
He feels Sion shift until a palm closes around his, thumb stroking over Riku’s knuckles in a rhythm. Riku lies awake as he feels the warmth pulse like a second heartbeat pressed palm-to-palm.
He knows he’ll wake up tomorrow the same way he woke up today. Riku lets himself want.
He curls his fingers tighter around Sion’s and feels the answering squeeze.