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Patterns of guilt and longing

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The dead of winter with all its never-ending nights. Early morning, cold and dark, and the dawn too far away for it to matter or to make too much of a difference anyway.

It’s kind of dangerous to walk alone at this time of night, but he doesn’t care. And he really wishes he still had a cigarette at hand, but risking hard partying -no matter how much of a safe house it happened to be at- when he’s barely eighteen is dangerous enough. He might be stupid, but he’s not that stupid, and there are still dreams that are not that broken inside him, little bits that hurt just enough for him to hang on to.

He also wishes he was more stoned, drunk; that whatever pill he took back there had made him dizzier, but he is painfully aware of his hand pressing on the doorbell, this doorbell. Painfully sure that the person behind this door is going to open it, once again, for a bunch of reasons that are not enough and never will be.

“Hokku…” Kento’s sleepy voice doesn’t even sound surprised, more a greeting than an exclamation or a request for explanation for late night visits. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last. It’s nice that both of them know it, that they are on the same page on this at least.

Hokuto lets himself in without a word, not bothering with removing his shoes as he closes the door behind him, traps Kento between his body and the wall in a movement that looks sharper than it feels, and kisses him.

It’s rough, the illusion of quenched thirst brief but powerful, intoxicating; and he lets it invade him, lets himself sigh and press against Kento’s heat, lets himself dream that it can melt all the ice.

He could laugh in frustration at how quickly his body reacts to Kento’s smell, at the way his skin prickles when Kento’s tongue find his and Kento’s hands finally fist into his clothes.

And this stupid, hurtful craving, the need to do this again, and again, knowing there’s no use in it, that there’s no hope and no possible escape. That this warmth is a fleeting lie that will leave more cold in its wake. That Kento can fuck him but he can’t ever love him.

Deft hands undress his upper body, and this is rite more than anything else, maybe companionship and maybe Kento’s fucked up coping mechanism for leaving him behind, for leaving half of B.I. Shadow behind. And Hokuto wonders if Kento would do this for Yugo, but he inwardly snickers; Yugo would never need this, he was always the strongest of them even if no one could tell just by looking. Stronger than Kento, that is absolutely incapable of saying no, stronger than Hokuto, and certainly stronger than Fuma, who is in love with Kento but is too much of a coward to do something about it or to let Kento do so.

A sick and endless cycle of ‘I love you, just not that way’.

Stalemate. Mexican standoff. All the stagnation and the stillness, and tension enough to crush galaxies in thousand universes. Sometimes Hokuto wishes he could cry.

Hokuto moves forward, parting Kento’s thighs with one of his legs, and he gets some satisfaction from the way Kento hisses as Hokuto’s upper thigh begins rubbing against the obvious erection straining Kento’s sweats. But he needs more.

When he goes for the old Hey! Say! JUMP! tour T-shirt Kento sleeps in -even though it barely fits in a way that’s comfortable these days- Kento stops him, as usual. Hokuto still curses softly when Kento undresses himself without his help. Damned control freak. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on this thought, as Kento forcefully flips their positions, and now is Hokuto’s back that’s pressed against the wall, no way out. At all.

Hokuto grabs Kento’s wrist when Kento tries to go to his bedroom, shaking his head at Kento’s questioning look. There are condoms on his bag, lube too. And he doesn’t want Kento getting away from him.

So Hokuto finally slips off his shoes, and removes his jeans and his underwear in one go. Once he is naked, Kento kisses him again, all his skin coming in contact at once with his, and Hokuto just wishes he could keep this heat inside him afterward or that at least he could emulate it somehow. But he can’t, no matter how many times he tries, no matter how many people he fucks. No one is this warm, just Kento.

Kento motions for him to hoist a leg over his hip, to give Kento’s lubed fingers better access. But Hokuto shakes his head once again.

“Just you,” Hokuto says, and he really hates the way his voice sounds soft and small even now, when his blood boils in his veins and every inch of his skin seems on fire.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

And Hokuto could very much laugh at that, but he knows what Kento means and that he maybe even means it in other ways. Kento is not a bad guy, but that just makes things more complicated.

So he ignores Kento’s concerned face and leans down, takes a condom from his bag on the floor. Kento is not ready just yet, but that’s easy to fix when he wraps his hand around him, strokes him as rough and fast as Kento would die before admitting he likes. Kento braces himself against the wall, and Hokuto can feel him rapidly thickening in his hand. So much for deniability.

A ragged moan echoes on the room when Hokuto rolls the condom over Kento’s shaft, and Hokuto rejoices in the desperate way Kento bits on his own lip when he coats himself with more lube than Hokuto would want to.

He wants to feel this, he wants it to hurt, tonight, maybe still tomorrow and every sorry hour that comes after when he regrets all the wrong choices that led him here. But it’s still Kento’s finger he feels inside him the next moment.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” is all that Kento has to say to Hokuto’s bewildered eyes, and Hokuto understands that Kento will have his way or this will be off.

It’s still not enough though, so he lets him continue, gasping when Kento goes from one to two fingers much too quickly and it stings so right he wants to scream. It’s hurried and hasty, Kento aiming for at least lubing him up when Hokuto wouldn’t let him properly prepare him. But just the thought of it, of Kento’s strong gentle fingers in him, opening him up slowly, the thought of giving himself so completely to him, again, is more than he can handle.

Kento stops just before Hokuto tells him to, five seconds after it starts to feel too good. In the dim light Kento’s eyes are darker, his flushed cheeks and his forehead already sweaty, making him look so damned enticing Hokuto can’t help but kissing him, brief and messy.

“Turn around.” Kento’s voice is ragged and impatient, and a traitor shiver runs through Hokuto’s spine, because even if he is not loved the way he wants to at least he is wanted.

So Hokuto turns around, rests his forehead over his crossed forearms, flat against the wall. He is just a little bit taller than Kento but his legs are longer, and it’s a little sad that by now Hokuto knows exactly how much he has to bend down for Kento to take him without problems, that his body is so used to this that the position feels natural and that he is hardly apprehensive when he feels Kento entering him, rough and demanding.

And he hates it. Hates that these are the only times that he feels relaxed, at peace, that this is the only way he can stop hurting. He hates the silence in his brain, because this is the only way he can achieve it and he forever craves it, every second of his life. He hates the warmth that spreads all over him, hates the pleasure that takes him higher than any drug, hates everything he can’t replace or trick his body and soul into believing he has. But above all else, he hates himself for needing this, for never being strong enough to resist the pull that brings him here.

Kento moves hastily inside him, and after a while he bends over, wrapping his arms around Hokuto’s waist, planting sloppy kisses on the back of his neck and down the bumps of his spine, lapping and nibbling on every inch of skin he can reach, playing Hokuto as deftly as a musical instrument that happened to fall onto his talented hands. Kento knows how to move, how to angle his hips so he reaches inside Hokuto just in the way he needs to brush against the spot that has Hokuto screaming raggedly, making him lose control as nothing else in the whole world can.

Hokuto straightens up a little, presses his back against Kento’s chest and turns his face in search of Kento’s mouth to seize it in a sloppy kiss, all tongue and messy confusion.

“Please,” Hokuto breathes into the kiss, and Kento chases his tongue as he lowers one of his arms from Hokuto’s waist, his hand slowly inching toward Hokuto’s heated cock.

Kento strokes him with brutal precision, hard and fast, as he knows Hokuto likes it, pragmatism even in the throes of passion, and Hokuto wishes he could just stop, run away from this, save the few unbroken shards of his heart left standing, but he can feel Kento trembling all along his skin, the unmistakable signals of impending release obvious in every inch of his heated skin, and is once more reminded that he is trapped. Lost, so lost.

Kento thumbs the head of Hokuto’s cock then and Hokuto claws at the wall, moaning unabashedly and pushing against Kento’s thrust one, two, three times before pressing his eyes firmly shut and leaving everything out as he spurts into Kento’s hand.

Kento’s rhythm loses all coherence, but Hokuto can’t register it in detail, too busy hanging on his own bliss while it lasts. It’s still Hokuto’s name in Kento’s bitten final moan as he comes, buried deep inside Hokuto. And somehow it makes it all worse, makes him feel grateful and somehow cherished, and this is way too fucked up for anyone’s sake.

Hokuto stands panting, his face pressed against the wall, trying to collect the bits of his soul scattered all over Kento’s skin and beyond, but it’s been a while since they don’t add up anymore. There’s always a gap in there that he wishes would hurt, because that’d mean that somehow it can be healed. But it’s numb and there is only coldness inside, emptiness.

When Kento puts his sweats back on and pads toward the bathroom, Hokuto actually thinks about making a run for it, going away before Kento returns, but all his limbs feel heavy and drained, and he ends up sitting naked on the floor, arms around his knees.

Kento comes back less than a minute later, his skin still glittering because of the sweat, and carrying a package of wet wipes for Hokuto to deal with any leftover mess on his skin.

“Hokku...” Kento begins when he is done, but Hokuto cuts him up with a raise of his eyebrow.

So, Kento just offers him his hand in silence, helps Hokuto to stand up, and then guides him to his bedroom. Hokuto is way too tired to fight.

“I’m not going to let you go home this late,” Kento says, and his tone is final as he throws some loose pajama pants his way. “You can shower if you want.”

Hokuto’s only answer is putting on the pants and climbing into Kento’s double bed. He closes his eyes and hears Kento walking away, most certainly to take a shower, because Kento hates going to bed after sweating so much without one.

Kento’s bed smells of him and Hokuto forces himself not to sniff at his scent on the pillow, to keep his breathing shallow and even, to try to sleep.

He has almost managed to fall into unconsciousness by the time Kento returns. Hokuto feels Kento’s weight dipping into the mattress and his movements as he settles in, feels the heat radiating from Kento as Kento’s back presses against his, and he sighs.

This will never kill him, and he has begun to wonder if it will ever go away, if he will ever break free from these patterns of guilt and longing; if he’ll ever be able to step away. But for now, as he falls asleep, he can at least pretend, can at least hang onto this illusion of warmth for a little longer, ignore the little bits of sanity that remain and shout at him to go away, and just embrace this. Just until morning.