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The trouble with kissing Goro again for the first time in nineteen months is that it’s really hard to stop doing it. But you can’t exactly do that on a public train, and even if you could, Goro obviously wouldn’t welcome it; so Akira spends the journey to Goro’s place industriously chewing gum to get the tobacco taste out of his mouth and studying his ex-boyfriend, who refuses to take the empty seat next to him.
Goro’s new glasses are on top of his head where they always used to put their masks during downtime, and his now-shorter hair has turned the same dark brown as every girl who works at Akira’s café. He’s looking steadfastly out the window at nothing, like making eye contact with Akira will make him explode. The AC’s so strong that Akira’s arms are prickling. After a while Akira reaches out with his foot and pokes Goro in the toe, and he turns. “What?”
“I like your hair like this.”
“Mm. I keep changing my mind on whether to grow it back out or not.”
Akira would like that kind of a lot. “You can’t put it up anymore, huh?”
“I only ever put it up because it was annoying. And you only care about this because that stupid little ponytail gave you a boner for some reason.”
Well. “I liked the utilitarianism of it. It was like an ass-kicking ponytail. But like, for my ass specifically.”
“It had absolutely nothing to do with your ass,” Goro says, and casts a long, belated look around the subway car. It’s a pretty standard assortment for Saturday night: weary office workers, drunk office workers, and students celebrating the freedom of not yet being office workers. None of them seem like they’re interested in a former celebrity flirting with his ex, or in giving Akira any shit over his mascara. “We’re almost there. That had better be strong gum.”
“Yeah? Or what?” Akira flutters his eyelashes as punctuation. He tried that with Iwai a few weeks ago (he’s been aggressively trying to shoot his shot with the guy since he moved back, now that he’s out of high school, though it really wasn’t working out and he’ll probably be stopping now anyway) and Iwai just asked if there was something in his eye, but it makes Goro go pink in the cheeks and turn around entirely instead of answering him, so it can’t be entirely unsexy.
Goro’s moved from his old high rise. He lives in a three-storey walk-up now, on the top floor. His hair’s so short now that Akira can see the back of his neck when he goes to unlock the door, though at least it’s shaggy around his face again. When he first cut it it made Akira disproportionately miserable for days, like that was what meant they were really over, not the part where Akira ruined the relationship and got deservedly dumped for it. Stupid to make a big deal about any of those things, really, so Akira didn’t say a word about either one, just texted back something stupid and stared at the photos Goro sent for probably hours. The first time he saw the nape of Goro’s neck he felt the same as he always did whenever they finally worked out a Treasure’s location, except in a horny way, and now randos can just see it on the subway.
Which doesn’t lessen the appeal. Akira nuzzles into that exposed spot of skin, huffs in the warm soap-and-sweat smell of him. It makes Goro shiver and raise his shoulders and say, “I have neighbours, you freak, can’t you wait ten seconds?”, but he leans back into it after a moment, too.
Akira’s nosy side would like to look around the new place, but his dick is fully in control by the time the door opens, and Goro’s neck is so bare and soft under his mouth. He slips a hand under Goro’s shirt too as they step inside, feels Goro’s stomach muscles clench under his fingers; and then Goro twists out of his grasp, shoves Akira sideways so his back hits what must be the coat closet door and kisses him bruisingly hard against it. (Akira is vaguely aware of Goro kicking the front door closed with his foot at the same time.) There’s no romance to it at all, just sex, curling tongue and hot breath and teeth lingering over Akira’s bottom lip. Akira wants to crawl down Goro’s throat and live in his ribcage. He thinks about Goro so much but he forgot that he makes him feel like this. He reaches to fumble with Goro’s shirt buttons.
“Someone’s desperate,” Goro observes coolly when he pulls out of the kiss, like Akira can’t feel every shuddering jolt of his chest against Akira’s own. With the door closed, he’s only lit by a thin strip of yellow coming from somewhere deeper in the apartment, shining on one dark eye and curving down his cheek. “I meant to ask. You still like it rough?”
That’s putting it lightly. After they broke up, Akira wanted to be pulverised. Akira’s primary fuck-buddy-slash-rebound back home had been a very nice guy with very little interest in making their friends-with-benefits sitch less friendly, but his twin sister had been game, and boy, Akira would love to see the look on Goro’s face if he explained that situation, but now is probably not the time. Likewise with that whole cop RP thing he got into the first week of university. That, actually, he probably shouldn’t tell anyone about ever. “I’m down for anything,” Akira says instead.
“You would be.”
“You were never that rough, though. At least in real life. My cognition got all the fun.”
Why the hell did you bring that up, asks Akira’s one stubbornly functioning brain cell, but Goro just snorts in that weirdly delicate way of his and goes, “Your head has been completely fucking scrambled, you know that? Like an egg.”
“And who did the scrambling again?”
Goro’s perfect nose wrinkles in the thin light, and Akira is struck with the conviction that he has never been truly attracted to anyone else in his life. Goro was always the apogee of mankind as far as he was concerned, the platonic ideal of sexy, Goro with his cupcake smiles and equally fictitious sneers and posture that’s weird as shit no matter which set of pretenses he’s leaning on at the time. In ordinary circumstances Akira would be on his knees already, but Goro was always funny about that particular act, and his head has turned, surveying his apartment’s hallway like Akira could possibly give a shit about anything in it but him.
His chest is bare under his opened shirt. What Akira can see of it looks exactly the same, like he never stopped working out the way Akira did, still lean and compact. Akira’s dick aches. He wants to get everything off, wants the lights inescapably bright, so every private cranny of Goro can be exposed to him alone. Wants the insides, too, every slick pink piece of viscus.
Goro’s looking at him again, now like he’s considering something. “Akira,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Hit me.”
“Oh,” Akira says. Wanting that probably doesn’t mean anything. Akira’s own predilections mean an embarrassing amount, but sometimes people just like to get hit, and it has nothing to do with the various things Akira needs to make sure he doesn’t accidentally bring up. Still, it’s so far from everything that’s been revolving in Akira’s stupid horny head for the past, well, years, that he hears himself say, “Are you sure?”
Something goes familiarly sharp in Goro’s eyes. “Oh my fucking god,” he says, “you really are the most useless, pathetic little bottom I’ve ever had the misfortune to—”
Akira hits him. It makes Goro’s head whip to the side and Akira’s palm sting, despite how meagre his wind-up was, but it also makes Akira’s dick get, impossibly, even harder. When Goro turns back there’s a flash of his smile gone wide and crooked before Akira’s being kissed again, so hard that their teeth click together and the back of Akira’s head thunks against the closet. Goro’s mouth tastes like iron and olives.
Goro’s coming on so strong Akira can’t think. It’s all Akira’s ever wanted, the kind of sex that makes your brain shut off entirely—there’s nothing but Goro’s skin under his hands, the fabric they’re pulling off each other, these kisses like punches straight to the mouth. Akira would let Goro kill him again any day of the fucking week, as long as this came first.
They stumble down the hallway, fumbling with their clothes, each other’s and their own, which is quite probably the hottest thing Akira has ever done in his life right until he trips on his own jeans and falls directly into Goro’s chest. Goro nearly topples over too, that sliver of light catching an expression of wide-eyed shock; but he catches him and somehow they both stay upright, even when Goro starts laughing so hard they nearly keel over together after all. His arms are so tight around Akira that Akira might pop, his cock pushing hard into Akira’s stomach with only his underwear between them. “Shh,” Akira whispers. “Your neighbours will hate me.”
“You don’t give a shit about my neighbours,” Goro says between cackles, but after that he starts making a visible effort to quiet down. Akira’s jeans have formed an actual hobble around his ankles; he should probably kick them off, but that would certifiably be the least hot thing he’s ever done. Goro heaves Akira onto his bed (not a futon anymore? interesting—) like he’s a sack of potatoes, kicks his pants off his ankles in one smooth motion. Akira pulls his jeans the rest of the way off with much less grace, gets the underwear out of the way too while he’s at it, and then lies back and admires the view—Goro in white boxer briefs, still shuddering from time to time with suppressed laughter, dropping his glasses onto the bedside table and switching on the lamp there. The curtains of his glass balcony door are already nearly closed, but he pulls them shut anyway, only for them to open up again the moment he releases, the yellow light from outside still determinedly slicing its way down the hall.
Goro mutters something crass-sounding and turns back to Akira. Akira had been mostly considering Goro’s ass, which is even better in person than Akira remembered, but now that there’s slightly better light he can see that Goro’s lower lip is split, that there’s blood smeared on his face like half-wiped-off lipstick. He sits up, dangles his legs off the side of the bed. Licks his own lips and tastes metal again. “Shit. Was that me?”
“I bit it,” Goro says, and lifts a hand to the cut. He’s still grinning raggedly. “Don’t take all the credit.”
Laughing with a split lip probably hurts. But sometimes that’s the point, and Akira hasn’t spent months upon months mentally kicking his own ass over their breakup just to start acting exactly as overbearing as he used to; so he instead suggests, with great hope, “You can hit me back if you want, y’know.”
Goro just goes, “Hm,” and moves closer, stands between Akira’s legs. The nostalgia of it hurts almost physically, an ache in Akira’s guts for one long winter morning in an attic that will never be his again. They hadn’t even really done anything that day, just hands and half a blowjob, and it wasn’t anything like this, and those are Goro’s same eyes looking at him now so there’s no reason to even think of high school, never mind keep feeling bad about it.
It would be much easier to not feel bad if Goro would hit him, but it feels rude to insist. He focuses on Goro instead—the shadows across his face, the way he still looks down at Akira like he’s much taller than he actually is. After a moment he grabs Akira by the ankle, yanks his sock off. Does the other one. Akira gasps, “Feet?” and Goro says, “I’m not fucking you in socks, moron,” and Akira never, ever got over him, not for a second.
Goro removes his own socks and underwear with a startling amount of speed, climbs on top of Akira and pushes him down onto his back, kisses him hungrily again. Goro’s being rougher than he used to. He was never gentle, but there was always that vibe about him, like he was holding their whole sordid history in his mind the whole time, like he needed to hold himself back. It drove Akira crazy. But now it’s like he could snap Akira in half at any moment, which is all Akira ever wanted in the first place, the exact thing he masturbated about for like six months straight, ever since he first heard that awful recording with Shido. Goro’s forcibly arranged the pair of them so Akira’s no longer lying perpendicular to the actual bed; now he’s latched onto Akira’s neck like a sexy lamprey, and his knee is right between Akira’s legs. Akira feels sharp and bright and a little feverish from it all, and also like he’s about to come from this alone.
Which would be awful. Maybe they should just speed things up before that happens. So he says, “So, fucking?” into Goro’s new weird hair, which is still as soft and sweet-smelling as it always was.
Goro goes still for a second, and then releases Akira’s neck, raises his head. Rests his arm across Akira’s chest and props his chin on it. The weight of him is incredible. “Yes? What about it?”
“Just wondering when we’re going to get to it.” Goro’s eyebrows quirk. “If it helps,” Akira adds, “I’ve had great reviews.”
Goro’s other hand slips down between them, finds Akira’s nipple. “I’m not sure I trust the sorts of critics they have out your way.” He runs the pad of his thumb across it, so lightly that Akira has to fight a shiver. “I could just jerk off, you know. Let you watch and then kick you out. I bet you’d still like it. Still come crawling back to my door like you always do.”
“That’s likely,” Akira agrees. He likes the way Goro’s talking like their time apart was negligible, like they were never awkward or distant and Goro never stopped responding to Akira’s messages. “Is that what you want?”
“Is that what I want,” Goro repeats. “You really haven’t changed.” His fingers pinch, then twist. It’s as good as a hand on Akira’s cock. He lets himself whimper in response, since people always like it when you make noise during sex, and is he imagining it or did Goro’s pupils just visibly dilate? They must have. They’re nearly as blown out as they were in Takemi’s office, except—well, except it’s nothing like that. Obviously. So he shouldn’t think about it. For tonight, at least, that never happened. Back home, Akira’s school counsellor said—
But Goro’s propping himself up with an arm now, leaning over to his bedside table. “How clean would you say your asshole is right now?” he asks while pulling open the drawer. “Be honest.”
“Uh. I did my best?” Hm. That was definitely not a sexy sentence, even if Akira’s delivery had been better. Still, Goro seems undeterred, turns around with a condom held between his fingers like a cigarette and a tube of lubricant in his palm. Akira says, “Oh. We don’t… you know I trust you.”
That invokes a long, withering stare. Apparently Akira missed that expression, too. Goro says, “Setting aside how absurd that statement is on the face of it, you may like to recall that my blood was in your mouth just now, so I think we’re a bit past worrying about all that for the moment. Maybe I just don’t like having to wash come out of my sheets every time I have someone over.”
“Oh,” Akira says. It’s fine that Goro’s been sleeping with other people. Akira expected it. It’d be weird if he didn’t. “Okay.”
“So if it won’t impact your evening too badly…”
“No, I see your point. Whatever you want.”
Goro sets the condom down on top of the book at his bedside, starts detachedly lubing up the first two fingers of his left hand. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s been doing fuck knows what in cow pastures this whole time.” (Unfortunately, this is technically true, though it only happened once and they didn’t know about the cows in advance.) “Roll over.”
Akira does. One slippery hand caresses his right ass-cheek, spreads it; and Goro slips one finger of the other hand in. Then a second. His fingers are smaller than most guys’, warm and uncouth, probing deep. It’s not uncomfortable but it’s more abrupt than Akira was anticipating, more intense. He rocks against it, lets his breathing get louder, hears Goro make a small noise deep in his throat that turns into a self-conscious little cough. He’s so cute. Goro’s fingers crook as if in revenge for that thought, find Akira’s prostate, and Akira lets out another soft whimper.
“You really do like this?” Goro asks.
“Mm. Yeah. It’s pretty okay.”
Goro sounds dubious. “Takes all kinds, I suppose.” Akira thought Goro had a good time bottoming, that last time they were together, though. Clearly he was wrong. Akira was a little drunk that afternoon and not in the greatest of headspaces to begin with and Goro was… not at his most emotionally transparent, but he should have picked up on that anyway. “Shit,” he hears Goro murmur. “You’re killing me, you know.”
“How the turn tables,” Akira says, almost involuntarily.
From behind him comes a very long inhale, which becomes less funny when Goro removes his fingers completely from Akira’s ass. Akira twists his neck to parse what’s going on, and to fully enjoy the fruits of his dumb meme, but Goro’s spoiled-milk expression only enhances the sight of his perfectly proportioned hard-on. Akira may have been exaggerating those proportions in his memory a little, but still, what a dick. It belongs in a museum.
Akira’s face must say as much, because Goro snorts again and grabs a gooey hold of Akira’s right wrist, pulls it behind his back until Akira’s shoulder burns, pushes Akira’s thighs wider with his knees. Rips the condom open with one hand and his teeth, which is something Akira needs video of; fumbles it on and says, “Ugh, grab me the—”
“Just fuck me like this,” Akira says, all interest in his own comfort having fully vacated his brain. “Come on, Crow—”
“That is not happening, you deranged little masochist,” Goro says, and leans over Akira to get the bottle. Akira hurts his neck craning to watch Goro’s hand stroke lube down his cock, brisk and professional—and then he finally positions himself and pushes into Akira.
It’s so good Akira forgets to make any noise at first. He’s never felt so full, so winded by every slow thrust. Goro’s smearing lube across his hip with his hand and Akira’s dick is leaking a frankly ludicrous amount of precome already and there’s really no other way to handle this than by saying, as Akira does, “Oh, good boy.”
Goro makes a noise like a chicken being strangled. He stops moving for a long second or two, just long enough for Akira to start worrying about it, and then lets out a snarl and slams in so hard that Akira almost yelps. Every thrust is fast and deep now, like he’s trying to kill Akira purely with his cock this time, and Akira is on the verge of a very unsexy giggle fit about it. “You—ngh—you liked that one?” he manages to say.
“Shut the fuck up,” Goro snaps, and twists Akira’s wrist in a way that makes a very legitimate groan come out of Akira’s mouth entirely without his permission. Goro could break it if he wanted to. Akira doesn’t need to be able to write by hand that badly, does he?
Akira says, “This—mmf—this is really your best, huh? I don’t know if it’s worth… worth the…”
No good. Everything he’s saying is blatantly untrue and more importantly way too hard to get out of his mouth when his mind is shorting out like this. He can’t even remember how that sentence was supposed to end. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to Akira, and the only thing that could possibly make it better is—
“Goro,” Akira gasps into the blanket.
“What.”
“I wanna kiss you.”
“Too fucking bad,” says Goro. He grabs the back of Akira’s head, shoves his face hard into the mattress, and Akira comes ferociously right then and there.
When he’s done, he becomes aware that Goro has stopped moving again. After a moment Akira feels him pull out. Akira rolls onto his back, briefly getting his ass in the wet patch, which is not pleasant but worth it for the sake of seeing the expression of absolute astonishment on Goro’s face.
“Holy shit,” Goro says.
“Yup.”
“I didn’t touch your dick once.”
“Yeah. Well. Sorry about the mess.” Akira feels feverish again, but this time in a way that probably just means he’s blushing.
Goro’s gone red too, from his face down to his chest, from exertion or maybe secondhand embarrassment or god-knows-what. “The—” he says, and looks at the top blanket. “I just washed that.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“And to think I was worried about my sheets. From now on I’m only fucking you in the shower.”
Akira says, “So there will be a second date.”
“I wouldn’t sound so confident about that if I were you.” But Goro’s eyes sweep over Akira’s face right after he says that, like he’s checking to make sure Akira isn’t taking him seriously. As if Akira’s ever been that easily dissuaded.
Goro’s dick is sitting forgotten but still hard and latex-wrapped between his thighs. Last time Akira saw it like this, through the weird post-nut haze—well, he’s thought about that so many times he could recreate it for a sketch artist. The way Goro was softening, the smear of come across his stomach, the exact angles of his knees. The distant look on his face when he said, “You’d better get packing, then.” Akira wanted to punch him, and start crying, and propose all at the same time, but he couldn’t do any of them so he left instead.
Akira’s been orchestrating arguments about that evening in his head for ages, but he’s never going to actually say anything about it in real life, so it’s really annoying that he can’t just get over it. Especially now, when he does have Goro back at least temporarily, when they’re having the big reunion that Akira has also been creating varyingly pornographic versions of in his head for just as long. He says, “Can I finish you off?” and reaches tentatively towards Goro’s cock. Definitely not how he planned the finale, but what the hell.
Goro doesn’t answer, seemingly distracted by wiping the lube off his hands with tissues, though he keeps glancing up at Akira as if he’s considering it. Then he sighs and stands up, pulls the blanket out from under Akira’s ass, and heads down the hallway with it bunched in his arms.
With anyone else Akira would assume he’s about to be kicked out. Maybe he is anyway. “Is that a no?”
“You could at least feign patience,” Goro says from what must be his kitchen. There’s a dull high slam that Akira assumes to be the door of his washing machine, and then another, different one, and Goro reappear in the hall, condom gone now, a lazy hand slowly rubbing his cock. “So,” he says. “You still want to suck it?”
It would have taken a lot more than getting dumped and mildly ghosted for Akira’s libido to let go of that particular desire. “Well,” he says, and is thrilled with how casual he sounds. “Sure. Why not? Should I get up? Or would you rather manhandle me a bit more?”
He is doing an amazing job at not looking this particular gift horse in the mouth, in his opinion. College Akira is so chill. Goro doesn’t reply, just climbs back onto the bed, straddles Akira’s chest. Grabs a pillow and shoves it under Akira’s head. “Aww, you do like me,” Akira says.
Goro reaches down, takes Akira’s face in his hands. “Akira,” he says, “I cannot believe how much I need you to stop talking.”
His erection is so close to Akira’s face, swollen and russet and dripping. “I think we could probably arrange that,” Akira says, and opens his mouth obediently. Goro runs his thumb across Akira’s cheek, and then moves in enough that Akira can take the head. It’s not the most comfortable position, but Akira does his best, sucks and curls his tongue, strokes the shaft with one free hand—and Goro doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, though his hands on Akira’s jaw have gone tense. When Akira looks up to meet his eyes he has that old look on his face, like the first time Akira kissed him. Like he’s about to bolt.
It doesn’t even get better when Akira starts playing with Goro’s balls with his other hand, something Akira had heretofore considered a foolproof method of improving a blowjob. So much for this, he thinks, more disappointed than he wants to be, and pulls back (he shouldn’t be able to pull back)—but as soon as he does, Goro’s brows furrow and he snaps, “What now?”
His tone is somehow both incredibly arousing and an unpleasant flashback to the suckier parts of high school. “You just seemed,” Akira begins, but changes his mind when Goro’s face gets even stormier. “I mean. You can be rougher, if you want. You know I can take it.”
“You really stopped because you need to get facefucked, huh,” Goro says flatly. It’s hard to tell if it’s a question or statement, but either way, maybe it isn’t entirely untrue. Maybe Akira isn’t nearly as nice and attentive a partner as he pretends he is, maybe if his imagination hadn’t been so precise about this specific scenario for such a stupid amount of time he never would have noticed Goro being a little hesitant—but in any case, Goro’s focused on him again, and that’s way more important than Akira’s maybe lack of morals.
“I also wouldn’t mind if you came on my face,” Akira says.
“God,” Goro says, but his mouth is twisting again. “You horny piece of shit.” One hand travels up to Akira’s hair, yanks a curl so hard it makes Akira’s toes flex. “Open up, then,” he says, low, and when Akira does, Goro pushes in so fast that Akira nearly chokes on him, and yeah, yeah, this really is what he wanted. Goro treating his mouth exactly like he did his asshole. The condom was worthwhile after all.
The bed is thumping with every thrust again, headboard smacking the wall like they’re fucking, and under it Goro’s breath is getting louder and throatier, and Akira’s eyes are watering like he just diced onions. Goro’s thick and unyielding in his mouth. One of his hands is squeezing the headboard, the other holding Akira’s head in place by the hair, occasionally twisting and pulling. Akira loves the smell of him, the dribble down his own chin. Loves the way he barely has to do any work now, too—he just has to focus on managing to breathe, on keeping his mouth and throat open and willing. He digs his nails hard into Goro’s thighs, hears Goro finally let out the single cutest moan Akira’s ever heard in his life.
He’ll be done soon. Akira won’t even mind if he ends up having to swallow, and it would be pretty hot to have his suggestion be so pointedly ignored—but just as he’s thinking that, Goro pulls back, gasps out a sharp “Fuck!”, and Akira just barely closes his eyes in time to avoid the warm globs that land directly on the backs of his lids.
“Fuck,” Goro says again, a sigh. Then, in a very different tone of voice: “Fuck. Keep your eyes shut. Hold on, I’ll get it.”
It’s on his lips, too. Impressive spread. As Goro’s weight on him shifts, then is removed entirely, Akira slips his tongue out, has a taste. It could be worse. “You should eat more pineapple.”
Goro goes Eugh, which is also pretty cute, and then the bed dips under his weight again, right by Akira’s elbow now. “If you go around telling all your hookups that, you really will get murdered,” Goro says, and follows that up with the distinct click of an imitation shutter.
Akira wants to open his eyes extremely badly. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
“For posterity,” Goro says, and starts patting at Akira’s eyes with what feels like a tissue. His hand is shockingly light, just brushing against Akira like he refuses to dislodge a single eyelash, soft little pats up and down. “You should see yourself. I’ll delete it right after if you’d like.”
Akira says, “It’d be hotter if you threatened to upload it.”
“You think it’s hot when I breathe. Don’t act like I could possibly need to go out of my way to make you happy. I’ll do what I like, thanks.”
He’s right, obviously. And speaking of. “Um. By the way.”
“Yes?”
“I’m hard again.”
Goro’s hand pauses, and Akira feels him shift. “You have got to be fucking kidding,” he says after a moment, but in a tone that suggests he has definitely observed the proof already, and resumes wiping at Akira’s face. “You have the absolute worst timing, do you know that? That’s always been one of your problems, though I suppose you have so many that it’s relatively minor in the grand scheme of things—”
“You’re making it worse,” Akira observes.
“Well, I’m not fucking you again tonight, I’ll tell you that for free.” He’s moved up to Akira’s eyebrows. “And I’m really not in the mood to suck you off, either. You’ll have to rely on high school memories as far as that goes.”
“Like, for good?” Akira tries to make it clear in his tone that he doesn’t mind either way. Those memories are pretty vivid, given how often he goes over them, but Goro’s blowjobs were such an intense experience that he’d be kind of bummed to not ever experience one again.
“Mm. For now. You’ll have to take me on an actual date first, for one thing. Ideally somewhere you don’t work.”
“I can probably manage that.”
Goro goes “Mm” again, and then his hand stops. “All right, I think I got it all.”
Akira cautiously blinks his eyes open. There’s no sting at all, not even any leftover blobs visible on his lashes. There’s a bunch of balled up tissues next to Akira’s head, and one in Goro’s hand still, sticky with come and black with mascara. Goro’s sitting stock still and tense. “Well?”
“All good. Lemme see.”
Goro’s exhale this time might be relief or exasperation, but either way, he passes Akira his phone.
Akira looks incredible. Which is to say, like shit—black smudges under his eyes, come splattered from his swollen lips to his hairline (Akira reaches up and finds a blob of it still there), a smudge of Goro’s blood at the corner of his mouth and a florid bruise on his neck. His cheeks and mouth are flushed like he’s been running, and his expression can only be described as that of a normal, nonspeaking cat who’s just found an endless source of canaries. Akira says, “I get why you want to fuck me now.”
“I find it hard to believe that you ever struggled to comprehend that,” Goro says, which is a completely accurate assessment, and then spits on his palm and reaches down to Akira’s dick.
His hand is hot and sweaty and Akira doesn’t even mind either of those things. Doesn’t mind the strength of Goro’s grip either—Goro never does anything casually, does he? Not when it’s real. A cool breeze is coming in from the balcony door now, catching the curtains and Goro’s newly messy hair, teases tiny strands around his head. Maybe everyone can see his nape now but they don’t get to see this— those soft little hairs waving in the dim light, Goro’s eyes still sharp and focused, the tiny shudders of his pale chest when he’s not even the one getting off. Akira is getting increasingly close to saying something stupid about his feelings.
“Do you work tomorrow?” Goro asks, saving Akira in the nick of time.
“Mm. Not until six. I have, um—study group, though. In the afternoon.”
“Right.”
Every stroke feels incredible. But coming immediately two times in a row would be awful, no matter how much Akira enjoys Goro’s insults, so Akira forces his attention away for the sake of his dignity. Goro doesn’t have a TV anymore but there’s a tiny potted cactus on his bookshelf, which singlehandedly makes the room homier than Goro’s old dirty-money apartment ever was, and next to that is—wait, what?
“Is that a litter box? I thought you—mm—hated cats.”
“I hate your cat,” Goro says. “Mine’s perfectly fine. Though I would advise you not to touch her if she comes home tonight. If anyone’s going to take your limbs off I’d like it to be me.”
Goro has a mean girl cat. It seems kind of perfect. “Please tell me about your cat.”
“No. Shut up and come, you’re giving me a cramp.”
Akira missed him so, so badly. Which means it’s not a difficult request. He brings himself back to it. Goro’s teasing the head of Akira’s cock with his thumb—he probably touches himself exactly like this, and there’s one hell of a thought—and Akira’s hips shudder with the urge to start fucking into his palm. Akira’s always liked the part of sex where you lose the fight for control with your own body. He looks over at Goro, admires every naked inch of him: the sweat beaded on his shoulder and the laze of his softened dick, the freckle next to his belly button that his fans never found out about. The gentleness of his gaze. That was always the real secret, the thing Akira’s always been too embarrassed to explain when asked the admittedly reasonable question of why on earth he would fall for his attempted murderer in the first place: Goro is, when you dig down deep enough, a really sweet guy.
And Akira is never, ever going to tell anyone that thinking about that just made him ejaculate all over his stomach.
“Finally,” Goro says, and wipes his palm off on Akira’s chest before looking him over appraisingly. “This look really suits you.”
“Right?” Akira says, like his legs aren’t still twitching.
That elicits Goro’s incredible crooked smirk again before he stands up, stretches, heads off down the hallway again. He really does have the best ass Akira’s ever seen, firm and plump and pale, with little dimples in it. Akira should get a picture of that, Akira thinks as Goro disappears into what must be the bathroom, closes the door behind him with a click. He bets Goro never gets butt acne. He wishes Goro had stayed, so Akira could see what would happen if he said that out loud.
Wishes Goro had stayed for other reasons too. He’s definitely taking a while. There’s a faucet audibly running full-blast in there which could be covering up anything. Akira’s being insane, he knows, Goro was visibly having a good time for most of the night and there are a million things you could be doing in a bathroom after sex, but… but if seeing Goro’s dredged up all these stupid intolerable feelings for Akira, why wouldn’t it do the same to Goro? What if Akira’s ruined everything for him with his stupid lust, dragged him right back to where he was in high school, and Goro’s in there right now with a bottle of pills or a razor and Akira’s just lying here like an idiot—
The door opens. Goro comes back wiping the back of his neck with a damp towel and holding another in his other hand, which he throws at Akira (Akira just barely catches it) before saying, “What the hell is that face about?”
“That’s just my face,” Akira says, and starts wiping said face with the towel. It’s deliciously cold, almost as good as dunking himself in ice water would be. Which explains a lot. You moron.
Akira starts dealing with the rest of the come on him, which is getting gross and tacky; glances up at Goro. Goro’s at his chest of drawers, pulling a fresh pair of boxer-briefs on. Akira probably shouldn’t sleep nude at someone else’s place, but it’s hot and he’s really comfortable. “I wasn’t too mean to you, was I?” Goro asks without looking back at him.
“Not even close. Gotta try harder than that.”
“Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.” Goro takes the towel from Akira, drapes it with the other one over the side of his laundry basket. Gives the curtains one last irritated adjustment and then climbs back into bed and clicks the lamp off. The top sheet’s bunched down by their feet; he kicks it a little, pulls it up until it’s covering his legs and half of Akira’s. “I don’t usually let men stay the night, you know,” he says, settling onto his back. “And those guys weren’t known criminals.”
“I’ve never swiped a single wallet,” Akira says. It seems a little late to ask him to leave, but who knows. It’d be stupid either way to feel bad about it. It’s not like tonight meant they were getting engaged. Akira doesn’t really sleep over after sex very often either, anyway—his panic instinct’s gotten a lot better, but he relies on Mona more than he likes to admit—but when it’s Goro… “Should I go, then?”
“Well. You have missed the last train, I suppose. Just go outside if you need to smoke.”
“Aww,” Akira says, and leans in, gives Goro a big sloppy kiss on the cheek that he winces away from. “You do want me to stay.”
“I absolutely did not say that.”
“You wanna cuddle with me all night.” Akira squeezes closer. “That’s so sappy, Crow.”
“You’re so stupid,” Goro says, but Akira can hear the grin in his voice. Akira buries his nose into the hot crook of his neck, breathes in the sweat of him until Goro goes eurgh again and pushes him away with a hand on the forehead. “It’s too fucking hot, Joker, quit it.”
No one’s called Akira Joker in ages. It’s like the time hasn’t passed at all. Like every feeling Akira ever had back then was hiding in that one word. Those feelings are settling in Akira’s chest again, tight and suffocating, like the thing that was temporary wasn’t the fear but the relief. Akira really doesn’t want to deserve being dumped again. He looks up at the shadow of Goro’s ceiling and breathes like his counsellor taught him and says, “I really screwed us up. I’m sorry.”
There’s the rustle of movement on the pillow next to him. Goro says, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“I most certainly do not.” When Akira looks over at him again, Goro’s staring at him, brow furrowed. “We are not fucking talking about this.”
“Right,” Akira says. “Okay.” It’s not like Akira really wanted to talk about it in the first place. It’s hardly an entertaining topic. Maybe it’s better this way. Put it all aside. Start over.
Makoto said once, while refusing to underage drink with him, that it was probably good that Goro dumped him, if you really think about it. That they obviously both have too much baggage for it to ever work. Akira responded to that by angrily doing another two shots and then kissing her, which went exactly as badly as he was hoping and thoroughly derailed the evening into subjects that had absolutely nothing to do with Goro Akechi. Even the essay-length text message he got the next morning about boundaries and responsible drinking and how maybe he should see a professional was worth it.
Akira’s counsellor back home, though—he said nice things about first love and second chances, about how one always wishes they could do it over, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if…? It made Akira feel impossibly weird and sad at the time but actually, screw it, Dr Maruki was right. It would be wonderful if, and Makoto doesn’t know anything about their relationship just because Goro’s friends with her sister now. Maybe everything before was just an unpleasant rehearsal that they needed to get through before the real thing.
“You’re right,” Akira says. “It’s done.”
“Yes, it is,” Goro says. But then he adds, “You really weren’t the problem. By the way.”
“I didn’t help.”
“You did. Actually.” Goro turns his back to Akira, adjusts his pillow. “Now shut up before I change my mind about letting you stay.”
Akira thinks of his travel toothbrush, the way he packed it without fully expecting to need it only a few hours ago. There’s pressure building in his bladder, and the sooner he goes to the bathroom and handles both of those things the sooner he can come back; but he likes lying here, indulging the simple joy of feeling utterly fucked-out next to the guy who did it, so he looks at the muscles of Goro’s back for a while instead. The gentle jut of his shoulderblades, the ridge of his spine, neither as sharp as they used to be. Goro’s right that it’s too hot to cuddle, but when Akira moves closer, wedges his knees into the curve of Goro’s own and presses one last kiss to the knob where his neck ends and his back starts, Goro doesn’t pull away.
In the morning Akira finds that he’s left black smudges of mascara all over Goro’s pillow. He slips guiltily out of bed, though not without disturbing Goro, who shoots him a glower through his hair that’s so vicious it’s like he didn’t recognize Akira at all, and then pulls the entire top sheet over himself and goes still again. Probably best to leave the pillow situation alone for now, then, Akira decides as he finds his underwear and pads off to the bathroom. He feels pleasantly sore all over, on his scalp and neck and in his ass.
Last night he was too tired to snoop, but the morning light inspires all sorts of things. (Goro would do it too, Akira’s sure, so it’s fine.) Goro’s old bathroom had been full of high-tier junk, the same sort of stuff Ann said she was given after shoots sometimes, bottles upon bottles that mostly seemed to be labelled in English or French. Who knew what any of it did, but it smelled pretty. He’s streamlined since then. But here’s the same kind of lotion Akira remembers, and next to it…
It’s the perfume bottle, the one Akira gave him for Christmas. The one Goro tried to give back after he dumped him. Akira didn’t let him do it, but afterwards he fantasized about a continuity in which he smashed it while Goro watched, to wordlessly communicate some crap like This is what you’re doing to me, you heartless asshole.
It would have been embarrassing to do that. And shitty. Goro didn’t even want to accept it in the first place. But Akira wanted to do a lot of things other than think about the breakup being his own fault, back then. Maybe forcing Goro to keep it was bad enough.
Anyway. It’s still here, three quarters empty in the cabinet behind Goro’s mirror. Also present is a second, unopened box of condoms and three bottles of prescription meds Akira’s never heard of, with dates on them suggesting they haven’t been used in quite a while. Akira’s arguably stunted sense of shame catches up to him around that point, overcoming his urge to flush every drug there in just the nick of time, and he abandons the bathroom in favour of heading out to the balcony in his underpants for a smoke. (The most rectangular animal Akira has ever seen darts past his legs and into the apartment the second Akira opens the screen door.)
The morning’s grey and so muggy that it’s like they never escaped the rainy season after all, and the view’s just other apartment buildings and a few shops. Goro comes out not long after Akira, wearing a crisply-ironed pair of khakis low on his hips and nothing else and looking startlingly awake for someone who still hadn’t been moving about a minute ago. “I still can’t believe you do that shit,” he says. He’s combing his hair with his fingers like he used to do when he was nervous, though this time it’s probably more a utilitarian gesture. It’s not doing much to combat his bedhead, though Akira’s own is probably worse. His cowlick, which Akira remembers always being tamed with a skill Akira knew he could never match even if he wanted to, is sticking out horizontally. “I bet you had a whole speech for smokers in high school when you found them in Mementos.”
Akira blows out smoke and says, “I have never claimed to not be a hypocrite. Although I think smokers were a bit too low-level for us. Mostly we did a lot of shitty boyfriends. So, again. Hypocrisy.”
“Oh, shut up,” Goro says, and takes an indelicate seat in the cracked plastic chair Akira had trepidatiously decided against testing out. His lip’s all scabbed over. Akira feels normal about that. “The worst part is how hot you look when you do it.”
“I know. That’s why I haven’t quit yet.”
“I suppose becoming a beautiful corpse is very much your thing.”
Akira lets himself grin like he’s still Joker, watches Goro get that look on his face in response, that sharp hunger Akira never once stopped missing. How could any of his friends understand what he lost if they’ve never been looked at like that, like you’re the most precious resource on the planet, the rarest delicacy? Only his counsellor ever got it. Akira had to leave out quite a lot of the narrative, obviously, but Dr Maruki still always seemed to understand the entire thing, every unsaid nuance, how irreplaceable Goro was even at his worst. He said, It’s sad, that we tell people it’s healthy to stop loving. “I’ll give it up if you want me to, though,” Akira says. “I know it’s gross.”
“You shouldn’t,” Goro says. “I wouldn’t give up anything for you.” It could mean so many things, or maybe nothing. “Quit when you’re feeling particularly vengeful. Make everyone else as miserable as you are.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” There’s no point in asking Goro for clarity, is there? That’s part of the deal. And he sounded like he was being honest. Maybe that’s how they’ll make it work this time—have no delusions about the kinds of people they are.
Akira’s done his cigarette. He stubs out the butt on the railing, says, “Was that your cat? The calico? Or did I let in the neighbours’?”
“No, that was her. Went right at my toes for breakfast, too, the little bitch.” Akira’s never heard his voice go so warm. “You make it unscathed?”
No cat would ever hurt Akira on purpose, he’s pretty sure, though admittedly he hasn’t actually tested this hypothesis. “You know me. Bulletproof.”
Goro’s hand creeps up to his cut lip, presses it so absently it’s like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “If you say so. By the way. You want breakfast? I have… eggs.”
“Sure. Any coffee?”
“Instant.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, come on, it does the job. I have this hazelnut shit you can put in it.”
Akira can’t help himself. “A real cup of coffee takes like two minutes to make, y’know. Have you seen how cheap French presses are now?”
“I can’t believe you think I’d ever learn how to use a French fucking press. The entire point of having menial service workers like you is so people like me can occasionally consume coffee that doesn’t taste like sludge without having to prepare it ourselves. Where would you be without the power of us lazy consumers?”
“Where would the CEOs be,” Akira says, again failing at self-restraint.
“Well, finding some other demographic to exploit, I assume,” Goro says; and then, “God. It’s like you’re contagious. I don’t even give a fuck about CEOs.”
“Yeah, right. You don’t give a fuck about anything. Totally.”
Goro says, “I really don’t know why I let you stay,” and stands up, stretches his shoulders. “What a hideous morning. I hope you like your eggs hard-boiled, by the way, because that’s what you’re getting.” And with that he heads back inside, closing the screen behind him without even glancing at Akira.
Akira will have to leave soon. Go to his study group and endure jokes about his hickey. But before that he’ll have to shower, or at least profusely wash his face and armpits; have to explain to Goro about the pillow, and try to stomach some instant coffee, and see if he can charm the cat. It’s not so bad, living an honest student life, really. So much of his first year in Tokyo was so big, so life-and-death, but it’s always the small things he remembers, the curry and the dumb conversations over ramen and Goro’s head against his shoulder. Maybe if he finds more small things to love, the old ones won’t feel so bad. He looks out at the Tokyo street before him, the vibrancy of it muffled under grey; palms his lighter, and heads back inside.