Archive of Our Own

For a moment, Makoto forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t until Youji coughed quietly that Makoto realized he had been staring, his mouth slightly agape as his heart raced furiously beneath his ribs. He swore at himself for having done this for the second time in as many hours, all the while forcing his chapped lips to split into smile .

“Yeah. Sorry, man — you know how spacey I get when I’m hungry.”

If Youji found something unusual about his response, he was polite enough to let the matter pass. He returned Makoto’s smile with a weak nod before returning back to his notes, nibbling on his pencil with poorly-masked anxiety. Makoto forced himself to do the same, the words on the page swimming in his field of vision like runes. Some ridiculous part of him hoped, in vain, that somewhere in them lay the answer to the question that had been plaguing him. All the while, a strange sort of restlessness thrummed just underneath his skin as an increasingly familiar aroma once more cracked the veneer of his self-control. He glanced over at Youji, his breath suddenly catching in his throat at the pale sliver of skin exposed by Youji’s collar. Makoto swore he could see the faint rhythm of Youji’s pulse.

For weeks now, there was a peculiar scent Youji gave off. It had taken a while for Makoto to realize that it was… pleasant, incredibly so. He had asked offhand if his friend had found a new cologne, and immediately dropped the line of questioning when Youji’s nearly-ashen features betrayed a brief flash of panic . Rather than dampen his curiosity, however, Makoto found himself drawn in. His scent was different in a way he couldn’t articulate, but understood with some primitive part of his subconscious. Colognes, perfumes — such scents were superficial. It was as though his senses knew that such things were artificial. 

Youji’s scent was different. Somehow, the dark coil of instinct in him that responded to it inherently knew that this scent was genuine. There was a duskiness to scents that came from a person, and their impact was less cerebral than it was carnal. Youji’s fragrance brought things to his attention that he had never intended to fixate on: the delicate pallor of Youji’s skin contrasted against his black hair, the strange allure of the dark circles under his eyes, the soft pink of his lips. Makoko barely managed to suppress an unexpected moan when Youji, deep in thought, had once absently licked at his lips, his tongue peeking through in a fashion that could only be described as unintentionally lewd. Youji had never been ugly, but something about the frailty of his appearance was arresting. He thought of a bird with clipped wings, feeling a perverse gratitude for the gilded rungs of Youji’s mysterious illness. Even as it deepened the eroding chasm between Youji and his peers, he couldn’t help but secretly relish each step that it coaxed Youji to take further into his arms. 

Not quite a cage , he thought even as he imagined swallowing the key. 

And there it was again. At some indeterminate point, part of him had split off and festered, gaining a presence it should never have been granted. 

In one corner of his conscious stood the Makoto he could recognize as himself: the Makoto who felt a strange bond with Youji, a mingled sense of pity and fascination. Youji, whether due to exasperation or exhaustion, tolerated Makoto tagging along like an underfed puppy, dragging him to whichever local eatery had fueled a recent obsession. Youji quietly sipped tea while Makoto slurped down bowl after bowl of udon, the shopkeepers having memorized his order. After that, it was hamburgers and fries; once again, Youji barely touched his food, nibbling on the pickles Makoto had plucked from his third burger. More than once, Youji had remarked, with uncharacteristic candor, on the inhuman quantities of food Makoto ate. “Like a bottomless pit,” he’d said, giving Makoto a smile that was so painfully sweet that he found himself wishing he could bottle it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a gentle expression on his face; Youji rarely smiled anymore.

Youji rarely did much of anything, in fact. He didn’t speak, rarely ate, and lacked the energy to respond to the sometimes-cruel bait Makoto would dangle in front of him, eyes pleading wildly for any kind of reaction. Youji’s wan features had long since lost their color, his slender fingers and thin arms nearly skeletal. His clothes had begun to hang on him, the collar of his shirt exposing his neck — almost like a woman’s, swanlike and fragile — and the steep dip of his collarbone. Youji had begun to wither right around the time that Makoto had first noticed the unique scent  — a scent that, apparently, no one else seemed to notice but him. Makoto suspected that the wires driving his instinct were crossed somewhere critical; somehow, a fierce drive to protect a friend who was clearly unwell had morphed into... this . 

All-consuming need. Youji was on the verge of breaking, and Makoto longed for nothing more than to catch the shattered fragments in his teeth . The crazed, frantic notes in his scent suggested that he was incomplete, that he yearned to be devoured. The rational part of Makoto’s mind railed against such baseless conclusions. But Youji’s smell said as much. In the other corner of his consciousness stood a Makoto that knew these things with a certainty that was frightening . 

Makoto had read about something like this once, during a particularly dry English lesson where, as usual, participles and verb tenses had become abstractions. In the wild, he read, animals looking for a mate released chemicals — pheromones? — that announced their availability. Females announced that they were in heat, and males responded by mounting them. It was quite efficient, he thought — no need for coyness or saving face. Mother Nature didn’t lie. 

And neither does Youji.

Makoto began to test his theory, starting a slow, calculated dance meant to steadily chip away at Youji’s defenses. He learned that despite his icy exterior, Youji was starved for physical touch, no matter how slight. There was something arousing about watching Youji squirm, clearly at war with himself for enjoying it. Something as simple as the briefest placement of his hand on Youji’s back, or a playful nudge, resulted in small grimace, Youji trying and failing to not lean into the touch. As the weeks wore on, Makoto’s breaches became bolder and more drawn-out as he found himself no longer satisfied with small indulgences. The deviant, unfamiliar part of him demanded more, its appetite growing with a ferocity that would have frightened him had the rewards not been so sweet. Despite his futile self-assurances about raging hormones, he knew something about this was well beyond what constituted “normal”. Something about Youji was preternaturally desirable, driving Makoto onwards with an overwhelming need to consume, to have Youji all to himself. He felt an instinctive sense of competition, though he couldn’t think of anyone else who even spoke to Youji, let alone pursued him.

He and Youji had agreed to meet together to study at Makoto’s house near the end of particularly long heat wave, the heat too suffocating to entertain walking to the local burger shop. Youji had agreed to help Makoto pick out a few miscellaneous items from the grocery store on their way there, though it was only when he’d caught Youji’s disinterested expression that he realized it was less a matter of agreement than Youji simply finding it too troublesome to refuse. He knew that Youji’s attention was elsewhere when he rattled off a list of items that could never be coupled to form a meal (“leeks… jam… lobster tails… KY,” he added, trying not to feel disappointed at the lack of reaction). Youji simply nodded, looking ready to collapse at any moment, his normally immaculate uniform drenched in sweat. Makoto found himself desperate to lick the salt from Youji’s brow, sweat clinging to Youji’s skin like nectar. That’s disgusting, he chided himself, and yet the moment he thought it, he wondered how it might taste. 

Perhaps Youji felt guilty about his reticence; his grimace said as much when he wordlessly slid in front of Makoto at the register, basket nearly overflowing. The latter gaped at Youji, scrambling for a way to hide his surprise.

“C’mon, you don’t need to pay for my food! It’s bad enough I dragged you around the whole store and — ohhh. I get it. Making me feel guilty for wanting to spend a little time with you. Pretty sneaky, Youji,” he said, grinning with what he hoped looked like playful malice. 

He tried not to make his simultaneous shock and delight evident, approaching Youji not unlike he would a easily-frightened hare. He knew Youji expected teasing, and he was happy to oblige.

“If this were payback, I think I could do a little better than covering your tab,” Youji replied, raising an eyebrow. His voice seemed a little more energetic than usual, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I spend my limited time with you and get mocked for it. You’re horrible, Youji,” he said, flashing a toothy grin at him. Youji smirked in reply, and Makoto’s mind immediately imagined him wearing such an expression under different circumstances. He shook his head, trying desperately to clear his thoughts. For an irrational moment he worried that others could see the filthy things he’d cast out of his mind.

As they left the store, Makoto tried not to spend too long admiring the slopes and tangents of Youji’s willowy frame, or thinking about how Youji’s scent seems to have a different top note than usual — spicier, he thinks, more mischievous. 

The hours had flowed past them with a honey-like slowness, their textbooks abandoned. Makoto sprawled shirtless against the blood-warm tatami, hoping some small temperature gradient still existed there. Youji leaned uneasily against the base of the sofa, head inclined to catch the rare breeze that would flit in through a cracked window. The soft slate of his uniform had become a sweat-drenched black, his hair clinging to his forehead like freshly-spilled ink. Cicadas keened in the distance; Makoto remembered once hearing that you could calculate the temperature by how often they chirped, though his mind was too sluggish to remember anything beyond this. He pictured himself capturing countless cicadas with a comically-oversized net and later dropping them one by one into a bubbling vat of oil, curious as to whether they would be able to chirp before they perished. How much of a crunch would their fried, keratinous bodies have? Would they be soft and gooey on the inside? Would they even taste good?

His stomach rumbled audibly in response. God, he was ravenous. He tried not to think about the inhumanly large meal he’d eaten only hours before.

“Man, it’s hot,” Makoto groaned instead, trying to fill the lethargic silence that had settled between them. He had become used to them by now, and almost welcomed not having to waste energy speaking or entertaining Youji.

Youji murmured half-halfheartedly in response, his voice barely more than a whimper. His face was flushed, and his breathing was unusually labored. 

“Youji…?” Makoto asked uneasily. His friend seemed, upon closer examination, feverish rather than simply hot. As if to confirm his theory, Youji’s eyelids seemed to grow heavy under his gaze, his lips parted slightly as his body seemed to veritably melt into the sofa. Cautiously, Makoto sat beside him (why couldn’t Youji have sat on the sofa rather than in front of it?) and pressed the back of his hand against Youji’s sweat-slick forehead. He tried to ignore how close they were; Makoto’s skin burned where their legs met. There were a million ways he could have pressed the advantage with this proximity, and each one was easy enough to distract him.

“Well, you don’t have a fever,” he muttered, more to himself. A low groan greeted him in response. Makoto tried to remove his hand from Youji’s forehead when, more quickly than he might have expected, Youji caught it in his grasp. It was weak, he noted. He could have easily broken Youji’s grip, but a low coil of heat in his stomach told him to be patient. 

“Makoto…” Youji whispered, and damn if even his voice wasn’t alluring in its own way. He sounded almost delirious.

A… Alluring?

Makoto was now vividly aware of the strange fragrance, and wondered idly how long he’d failed to notice it. Serpentine flames licked at his veins, tracing a path down his spine and, to his shame, his groin. He tried desperately to find some way to cool his racing thoughts, and instead found himself fixated on the rosiness of Youji’s lips, parted slightly as though expecting someone else’s to greet them. Even the usual cream of his flesh was pink; Makoto was reminded of a ripened peach, the glisten of Youji’s perspiration doing nothing to diminish the illusion. He hated how easily he thought of lewd ways to run with the metaphor even despite how absurd it sounded, and how literally he wished to sink his teeth into its flesh — his flesh , he corrected — and admire the pretty pink rivulets that would weep from the bite. 

STOP IT.

Seemingly with great effort, Youji gazed up at him, lids at half-mast as though the act of simply opening his eyes was strenuous. The expression on his face, however, had a dreamy quality to it; his heart pounded with the realization that Youji was far from unaffected, the sweet scent having become stronger. Flowers and mundane similes failed to describe Youji’s fragrance: beautiful, persuasive, and dangerous like a knife, tearing his volition to shreds.

He wants this. Every part of his body is screaming for it, I bet.

To confirm his theory, he glanced briefly between Youji’s thighs; he had assumed correctly. The rabid creature in the corner of his conscious roared in triumph. Though impossible, Makoto swore he could almost smell the precursor of Youji’s arousal, could taste the fiery capsicum and suggestively bitter anise. His heart raced painfully, pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribcage; he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

In a burst of courage that surprised him, Makoto met Youji’s eyes as he gently, deliberately inclined his hand — still slick with Youji’s sweat — towards his own mouth and licked it. Youji’s eyes widened. 

There were a few things Makoto had expected. He had expected, in the split second between impulse and execution, that Youji would be surprised. Who wouldn’t be? He had also expected that his sweat would be salty, perhaps even a bit bitter. 

However, he had not expected Youji’s breath to hitch when he did so, nor the fact that the eyes that met his were deceptively intense, pupils dilated. Youji’s cheeks had flushed a deeper shade of red at the provocative gesture.

He also hadn’t expected the kaleidoscope of flavors. Youji’s sweat was salty, of course, but there was also a delicate sweetness to it, like lychee. It was impossible to describe, but even while his rationality slammed its fists against his skull, he found himself dizzy with the pleasure of it. 

Youji tasted perfect, and he realized with startling clarity that nothing (no one) else would ever quite compare.

Unthinkingly, he licked at his trembling fingertips, hoping to find more of that sweet nectar. He moaned quietly when he did, eyelids fluttering closed. He sat still for a moment to allow the array of flavors to wash over him and drown out the small, wordless cry of dismay from his conscience. A top note of vibrant saccharine like cane sugar, followed by a more mellow taste reminiscent of cream. At the end, he noted, it became heady, intoxicating — rich, bittersweet cocoa, almost sensual. 

“Ma… Makoto,” Youji stammered, voice barely more than a breath. In the back of his mind, Makoto knew how deranged he must seem, but all he could think about was the overwhelming need, about answering Youji’s wordless plea. Behind the naked fear and confusion in his eyes was a dark curiosity . Wild black eyes followed Makoto’s tongue gliding greedily along the planes and dips of his own hand, openly relishing the taste of Youji’s perspiration, unable to stopper his low purr of approval. His unclaimed hand circled possessively around Youji’s other wrist, Youji’s grip tightening in response. Their chests were nearly flush against one another’s, their heated breaths mingling. 

“Youji… y— you’re delicious,” he sighed, all the while wanting to rip out his tongue the moment it betrayed him. Every muscle in his body strained fruitlessly against the need to lean in and sample more; at some point he had straddled Youji, pinning his thin wrists against the sofa behind him. Makoto’s blood boiled, his breaths reduced to wild panting. Youji’s sweet fragrance sang to him, numbing the agony of abstinence; he felt as though his body was melting.

As though to goad him, a bead of sweat trickled along the side of Youji’s neck, settling in the valley of his collarbone. Youji met his eyes, and he swore that his gaze smoldered; Youji gasped and quickly turned away, exposing more of his neck as if to entice him. He couldn’t stop the low keening sound in the back of his throat — it was close enough to dare, too far to claim it was accidental if he let his tongue peek through his lips for a moment. 

Fuck, this is bad. 

He could see the pale, almost imperceptible blue of Youji’s jugular, the delicate tendons of his neck. How fragile he seemed like this, reduced to his base elements. Blood and sinew. Pestilence and sorcery. A thrill ran down his spine as he considered how easily his friend seemed to bleed (so easy to cut him, to peel him like an apple), the image of the stark contrast of crimson and his sickly pallor calling to him like a siren. 

Don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this  —

but god, he tastes perfect, so goddamn perfect

Youji is my friend , I can’t —

bury myself inside of him. make him scream for me. no one loves him like i do. no one else deserves him. youji is  m i n e  — —  — 

Instead Makoto all but ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the adjacent walls. The strength left his knees, and he heard rather than felt his body slide to the floor, legs buckling underneath him. Burying his face in his hands, Makoto tried vainly to suppress the quiet sobs that escaped him, shoulders heaving violently. Even while a fresh wave of self-loathing threatened to swallow him whole, his body still roared with raw need, hand arcing towards the tangible reminder of his shame. 

A spark of bliss as he indulged in the faintest of touches, a brilliant lightning strike only temporarily piercing the dark veil that had settled over him. And still he continued, throwing one arm over his eyes as though to hide himself, though from whose gaze he couldn’t say. His other hand traced familiar circuits and paths; he could still taste Youji on the back of his tongue, could see with vivid clarity his delirious expression.  He bit his lip, trying to silence his intermittent sobs and the broken gasps that kept breaking through his defenses.

Something about this was different.

He wasn’t naive enough to be wholly unfamiliar with these sensations, but there was a difference between the fledgling, wide-eyed curiosity he knew, and… this. Immediately he thought of a parasite, some foul, pitiable creature nestled within his entrails and gorging itself on the fruits of Makoto’s fascination. He had always found Youji attractive, and would be lying if he said that he’d never imagined how he might prefer to spend their afternoons together. But at some point, Youji had become the locus of every half-formed thought and desire, inevitably feeding a grotesque creature that grew increasingly insatiable. The creature fed not so much on his desire, but their mutual target: Youji. Makoto had felt desire before — and, if he were honest, for Youji far longer than he cared to admit — but never this desperately, this painfully. If Makoto hungered for the flesh, then the “parasite” could be said to hunger for something not unlike itself, he thought. 

What does this thing want from him? What do I want from him?  

Words like “lust” sounded wrong and trite no matter how he phrased them, to say nothing of the impossibility that Youji — beautiful, sickly, ever-cautious Youji — could be host to something this vicious. Whatever the hell “it” was, “it” wanted something that Youji could not give possibly reciprocate. Deep down, he knew it was irresponsible, blaming these feelings on anything other than himself. It was easier to think of himself as a decent person, someone that could deserve Youji’s attention, if he pretended that something else was to blame. It was easier not to think too much about their undefined relationship if it meant Makoto was an unwitting host to the desire that threatened to shatter their tenuous bond.  He tried not to dwell too much on what this all meant for the past of him that dreamed of simpler things.

Either I’ve been possessed by a devil, or I’m batshit insane.

What had begun as a mundane infatuation had warped into a singular obsession. He found himself anxious if he could not see him, borderline catatonic if he went too long without losing himself in the strange, hypnotic fragrance of Youji’s blood. It mattered little what else was going on — his body, the treacherous thing, demanded satiation. Even his hunger — something Youji himself had remarked on — became secondary if the parasite was ravenous. It was an endless cycle: spend days lying in his own sweat and shame until he was physically incapable of appeasing the parasite any further, muscles screaming with fatigue, followed by days gorging himself to the point of vomiting (“you must have two stomachs, Makoto,” Youji had said during one of his binges, the former laughing bitterly. One hunger criticizing the other, he’d thought). The parasite didn’t necessarily wait its turn when this happened. More than once Makoto found himself slipping in and out of consciousness on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, surrounded by half-digested gluttony and miserable desire, stomach still churning unhappily with nausea. For once he was grateful that his parents were rarely home; he wouldn’t be able to look them in the eye as he currently was.

It was never enough. He saw the fear in Youji’s eyes, even while clouded by their shared delirium, and still all he could think about was how sweet it would be to finally be sated, to finally soothe the clawing at his viscera. Even now, while grappling with the leaden despair that clung to his insides, the parasite crooned with delight as Makoto dutifully obliged it, whimpering with mingled pleasure and humiliation. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to see or think of anything other than Youji sitting a few paces away on the other side of the door, body singing with invitation. He could still smell him, could almost taste — 

He had to get out of here. 

He could feel himself teetering dangerously close to the edge of a precipice, with only jagged rocks to greet him after his descent. The violent current within him wouldn’t hesitate to rip the skin from his bones if he let himself succumb to it. It would be so easy to do, he thought. It would be so much easier to just let it happen, to finally rest after weeks of constant ebb and flow, hunger and more hunger, agony upon agony. 

Turning on the faucet, Makoto ducked his head underneath it, enjoying the small bit of relief the water provided against the suffocating heat. He let it dribble over his eyelids and into his hair, taking greedy gulps when he could catch his breath, finding a morbid pleasure in continuing even when he couldn’t. He pat his face dry, more roughly than was necessary, hoping the flush would blend in with his reddened, puffy eyes.

When he opened the door, he found Youji sitting quietly at the table with an almost comically-serious expression, looking considerably more put-together than before. He noted with a brief pang of frustration that Youji had wiped the sweat from his brow and was dabbing delicately at his neck, clearly still pouring sweat from the sweltering heat. Youji met Makoto’s eyes briefly before immediately staring back at the ground, blood seeming to rise to his cheeks almost instantly. He nodded almost imperceptibly towards the table, upon which two glasses of amber tea sat, fresh enough that condensation had not yet formed on the glass. Makoto dutifully sat across from him. As much as he yearned to sit next to him, he needed distance to keep some semblance of control over his thoughts. Youji’s fragrance had settled, it seem, making it exponentially easier to think clearly.

“I hope you don’t mind. I thought it might help with the… heat exhaustion,” Youji explained carefully, giving Makoto a slow, appraising look. Makoto smiled widely, closing his eyes as the familiar earthy aroma seemed to soothe his nerves.

“Mugi-cha. This’ll be my first cup of the season, actually.”

“Really? Shall we toast the occasion?” Youji asked with mock seriousness, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. A few strands of hair had fallen across his face haphazardly, lending the smile an unintentionally provocative air. He yearned desperately to reach across the table and claim those mocking lips, to card his hands through Youji’s hair and feel his small shudder of surrender.

Instead, he raised his glass, Youji following suit. He cleared his throat dramatically. 

“I’m no good at this kind of thing. But… uh, to the upcoming rainy season and no more damn heat waves!”

They sipped their tea simultaneously, allowing themselves to fall back into the comfortable routine of Makoto complaining and gossiping good-naturedly, Youji content to listen. The shrill cry of the cicadas settled as the sun began to dip under the horizon, staining the sky a brilliant shade of pomegranate. In the distance, bells rang with the chimes of Yuuyake-koyake, filling him with a nostalgic sense of sadness. He remembered his mother recalling it fondly, reminiscing about walks home with classmates that turned into frantic sprints during the first few notes. Mothers with beaming smiles and steaming bowls of rice would greet them at the end of their journey. 

Makoto couldn’t remember ever having heard it with someone walking beside him, nor with anything awaiting him when the song ended . He had never thought about it much before, but he felt it fitting that he should finally experience it with Youji. He considered sharing these feelings, deciding instead to memorize the small, unbidden smile on Youji’s face, backlit by the sunset they watched together.

Youji left shortly after frogs began trilling in earnest, the sky dark and starless. He politely declined Makoto’s offer (plea) to walk him home.

A sense of grim release settled over him as Youji’s thin form disappeared beyond the hill, swallowed by the night. He imagined this must be how an prisoner felt at the conclusion of a furlough.

Being with Youji was agonizing, clinging by the tips of his fingers to the edge of a canyon. More than once, he wondered if allowing himself to be razed by the rocks below would be less painful than holding on indefinitely, joints broken and bleeding from the sheer effort. Not ravaging Youji required every ounce of self-control he could muster, yet it was becoming apparent that this was no longer enough.

Youji’s absence hurt worse. Left alone with savage hunger and misdirected lust, nothing fettered the part of Makoto hellbent on excising his conscience, sliver by sliver. Part of him was grateful for this solitude; he felt as though he were borderline necrotic, the parts of him that were recognizable sloughing off every time he touched himself. He wasn’t even sure that his DNA was even his anymore, if his beast-like obsession with Youji’s scent was any indication.

He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Decay was an inherently private experience, and for once he felt no need to try to placate his feelings or numb it with the incessant droning of acquaintances and schoolmates. There was no dignity in what was happening to him: rutting and feeding, relying on pale imitations. As much as he yearned for Youji, wearing a mask was suffocating, those distrusting eyes seeming to witness every tell, every flash of scale and fang.

Makoto drifted between consciousness and a silvery limbo punctuated only by the gnawing of his stomach and the small spikes of pleasure the parasite demanded. The demon sang while Makoto lay dormant within the murky womb of his conscious, the outside world little more that a muffled, low-frequency murmur. His thoughts became a fever dream of pale skin, black fair, and dark, wary eyes; pinkish lips and a small glimmer of unbidden eroticism; a dangerously potent fragrance that rent his self-control in twain. A single word anchored him to reality, too far from surface to drag himself out of it, but just close enough that he could see the sunlight dance among the violent, churning waves like diamonds. 

Youji.