Work Text:
“Yoshiki. Hey! Yoshiki!”
Everything hurts. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to think, he just wants to close his eyes, shut out the blurry shadows in front of him, drift away into nothingness. ‘Hikaru’s’ voice is about the only thing that doesn’t hurt, but it’s keeping him here so it’s just as bad.
“Aw, shit, it got in,” ‘Hikaru’ says, kneeling down next to Yoshiki and blocking some of the light not just with his body, but with a writhing flare of darkness that spreads slowly out from him. Yoshiki is pretty sure, even through the red haze of pain across his vision, that isn’t -- well, no, it’s real, but he doesn’t think it’s actually there. He’s only seeing it because of that thing that ‘Hikaru’ didn’t quite catch in time, the thing that crashed into him and knocked him flying off his bike and into the bushes at the side of the road before ‘Hikaru’ snatched it back and ate it.
His hand lands on Yoshiki’s shoulder in what ought to be a comforting squeeze, but one finger lands across a rip in his shirtsleeve, against his bare arm, and heat flares up between them. It soaks into Yoshiki like water into dry paper, splashing out and spreading until all of him is alight and burning and the only reason he’s not screaming is because when he finally manages to catch enough breath to make any sound at all it comes out as a ragged moan.
But it doesn’t hurt anymore, in that one specific spot where ‘Hikaru’s’ skin rests against his. The fire shifts and twists and turns into a roaring need. Yoshiki reaches up unsteadily and touches ‘Hikaru’s’ face, one hand sliding along his cheek, the other shoved up into his hair. He’s never felt anything better than the slide of his palm along ‘Hikaru’s’s skin, the tangle of his fingers in that shaggy hair. “‘Hikaru’,” he rasps.
‘Hikaru’ stares down at him with blank confusion. “I can’t find it,” he says, sounding disturbingly lost and uncertain, “Yoshiki… I don’t know what it did.”
Yoshiki thinks he knows. It’s not that he has any idea what kind of monster it was or how it did it, but he knows what it did to him, because he’s felt this before: this hopeless desperation, the burning need to be touched. He’s lying here, out in the open, in front of ‘Hikaru’, all the broken pain in his body turned to heat and dull, sweet aches like he’s been teasing himself for an hour, edging himself to thoughts of faceless strangers or Yusuke or Maki or Hikaru or ‘Hikaru’. It's mostly been ‘Hikaru,’ lately. Except his underwear and pants are still on; he hasn’t even touched himself. What if ‘Hikaru’ touched him instead, he thinks, and shudders uncontrollably under a new wave of heat so strong that ‘Hikaru’s’ skin feels icy cold under his hands.
“Yoshiki!” There’s real panic in ‘Hikaru’s’ voice now, a jarring and evident fear that’s far too human for what he is. “I’m gonna-- I’ll--”
“Touch me,” Yoshiki gasps, with all the air and strength he can scrape together, “please-- ‘Hikaru’-- I need--”
‘Hikaru’ rips the shirt off of him with enough force to send buttons and scraps flying; he lays his hands flat on Yoshiki’s chest awkwardly, straddling and leaning over him so he can peer down into his face, like he's hunting for something.
This shouldn’t be anywhere near enough, even for how close to the edge he feels, but somehow, between the position, as ‘Hikaru’ pins him to the ground, and the slide of his hands over Yoshiki’s chest, a finger brushing entirely accidentally across a too-sensitive nipple, it is. Yoshiki chokes on nothing and comes, bucking up helplessly against ‘Hikaru’ as surges of pleasure tear at his mind, rip through his body. There's no relief, it doesn’t bring him back from the edge at all. His cock slides over the suddenly-slick inside of his briefs and he’s right back to that terrible, beautiful spot at the edge of the cliff, except now the cliff is taller, higher, as the fever churns even more brightly inside him.
After it’s over, Yoshiki drops a shaking, numb hand to unbutton his pants. It isn’t exactly shameless-- he still feels the stabbing shame of it, invisible beneath the flush of arousal-- but he feels like he’ll burn alive if he doesn’t do this.
‘Hikaru’ turns, twisting his head to look at the sound of the fabric. Yoshiki can’t see his face like that, but he goes very still when he sees the open front of Yoshiki’s pants, the lewd press of his still-hard cock against the thin wet white fabric of his briefs.
Yoshiki squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can, so he doesn’t have to watch what happens next; doesn’t have to watch ‘Hikaru’ decide whether to touch him or not. “Please,” he says again, anyway.
‘Hikaru’s’ fingers are so much colder than his own, less flushed by heat, arousal, or whatever got left in Yoshiki that’s driving this need, that Yoshiki yelps when they trace hesitantly over his cock. He still pushes up against them, though, is completely incapable of not shoving against that tiny bit of contact, chasing after him--
And then ‘Hikaru’s’ hand is inside his briefs, sliding down against his belly, closing loose-fingered and tentative around his cock. All Yoshiki’s breath leaves him at once in an incoherent noise, half-shout, half-whimper, as he comes for the second time in less than a minute, spurting into ‘Hikaru’s’ palm, rubbing against him frantically even as the last pulses of it drain out of him. For a moment in the aftermath, his body tries to protest its oversensitivity and pain; then that drowns and fades away like so much white noise into the continuing storm of desperation.
‘Hikaru’ pulls his hand away-- Yoshiki whimpers again, high-pitched and humiliating-- but it’s only so that he can turn and move down, kneeling over Yoshiki’s thighs, and pull his pants and ruined, messy briefs down to his knees, leaving him bare, exposed.
Yoshiki renews his grip in ‘Hikaru’s’ hair with one hand, pressing the other over his own mouth to silence himself, keep the horrifying noises in, keep himself from begging ‘Hikaru’ to do things to him--
“What should I do?” ‘Hikaru’ says.
Yoshiki’s teeth sink so deeply into the meat of his thumb that the pain breaks through the haze of lust for a bare second. He opens his eyes, looks up at Hikaru, kneeling there over him, hand smeared and glistening with his come-- and that tiny moment of clarity is gone. His hand falls away from his mouth, dropping to his own chest, over his own nipple. “Please, ‘Hikaru’, your mouth…” he hears himself beg, with a fading, distant horror.
‘Hikaru’ blinks at him blankly for a second, but then late comprehension flashes across his face. He drops down, palms flat on the ground beside Yoshiki’s hips, and dips his head-- Yoshiki’s hand tightens in his hair so hard it should hurt, would hurt if ‘Hikaru’ felt things like that normally-- just enough to catch the head of Yoshiki’s cock awkwardly between his lips.
He feels ‘Hikaru’ flinch slightly, insensitive to pain or not, at the way he pulls at his hair after that, at the way he bucks off the ground, chasing the impossibly perfect, slick, wet feel of his tongue, his mouth. Regret falls aside with horror; he can’t do or think anything but more. And it feels like it takes 'Hikaru' years to figure it out, to do anything more than let Yoshiki thrust frantically up into his mouth, probably because he has no memories to rely on. He has to do it all himself: learn how to close his mouth around Yoshiki’s cock, how to move his tongue to cradle the head and angle himself so that he can take Yoshiki all the way in to the back of his mouth, sucking at him, a constant flood of sensation because he doesn’t have to breathe.
Yoshiki doesn’t think about that; he can’t; there’s no thought left in him, only the pulsing, driving, unbearable need to finish again. He moans and yanks on ‘Hikaru’s’ hair and fucks his mouth until the last of the need burns itself to ash and he’s coming, again, one more time, over ‘Hikaru’s’ tongue and feeling the press of his lips as he swallows.
After that, there’s nothing for a long time.
He wakes up, drained and exhausted despite the sleep, in Hikaru’s room, tucked into Hikaru’s sheets, with ‘Hikaru’ sitting wedged in the corner, watching him. There’s a cool cloth on his head, like he’s been sick and is only now waking up from a long fever dream. But there are bitemarks in his hand, scratches down his arms, and an aching emptiness curling around the shame and horror and embarrassment that say that everything he remembers is real.
“Yoshiki,” ‘Hikaru’ says, when he looks up at him. He doesn’t look ashamed or horrified or any of that, he doesn’t look like Yoshiki did that to him, made him do those things. He just looks like ‘Hikaru’. “Sorry,” he adds, completely incomprehensibly, and then, “I shouldn’t have let it get ya. I’m really gonna do better next time. I promise.”
Yoshiki shuts his eyes again, grits his useless emotions back behind his teeth, swallows them down. “Okay,” he says.