“Joker! Try a gun attack!”
Futaba’s instruction gives him pause. It’d been awhile since they had come across a Shadow with a weakness to gunfire, but none of their spells so far had downed these floating eyeball-stars. Not that they’re strong, by any means - even at their first encounter facing them in the Spaceport, it’d only taken one or two hits to make them crumble into Metaverse-goo without a weakness.
Still, Akira has faced enough amped-up Shadows to know that finding a weakness now is better than trying to struggle for one later. If it is weak to gunfire, this is a good chance to test whether the flashy skills Shinya has been teaching him do actually work. Even if the others roll their eyes, he knows they’re cool as hell.
That said, he probably won’t be telling them that he learned them from an eleven-year-old.
He rolls out of the way of a fireball as the star throws an Agilao at him. In the same movement, he smoothly withdraws his gun, takes aim, and shoots.
The other Thieves surround the star as it crumples in a heap on the bone-strewn ground. Its disconcertingly low voice mingles with the eerie howls of Mementos. “I give up, give me a break already!” It barely takes any convincing before it’s mingling with his other Personae.
Decarabia. Something deep in him knows its name, welcomes it as a piece of his soul slotting into place.
“Joker, the chest,” Yusuke reminds him, an he turns his attention to the treasure that illuminates the whole corner of the large chamber. He can’t help the little thrill that fuels a smirk.
“Aw, hell yeah!” Ryuji’s voice is just a hair too loud to be so close to Akira’s ear, but he can’t quite mind. He pumps his fist, a gesture that should by all rights look ridiculous. Somehow it’s just triumphant and weirdly cute.
Akira pulls out a lockpick. The promise of treasure, big or small, is tempting as always. Ryuji joins him and his hand feels heavy and prickly on his shoulder. Huh. He barely restrains a shiver and catches himself about to roll Ryuji’s hand off. It’s different than how it usually feels - not that he wants to think about his very inconvenient crush right now, thanks very much. It’s just… it’s weird.
The treasure itself is pretty good - a Bead, though he’d have preferred a chain of them. Ryuji makes an appreciative noise and his hand slides to the center of his back as Akira stuffs it in his pocket - and he knows they just got out of combat, but he’s going to need to talk to Ryuji later about discharging his zios. The hand pats him a couple times, friendly and light, and Akira can’t contain a shudder.
Akira climbs into the driver’s seat in the Monabus. When Makoto claims the passenger’s seat, he realizes she’s giving him a side-eye. He can’t be surprised that she of all people noticed, but he’d like to keep it at just her if he can help it.
That proves to be difficult. The buttery silk lining of his jacket chafes at his arms, his vest digging into the skin of his shoulders. He shifts to one side, then the other as he drives, unable to rid himself of the pins and needles under his skin.
“Can you quit squirming already?” Morgana gripes, hitting the brakes on himself. “What’s with you?”
Akira shakes his head. It’s not important enough to try explaining, to worry the others with. They’re paying attention now, though, since Mona slammed to a standstill without warning.
“It’s nothing.” Still, he's not sure how much more of this he can take. He leans forward and pulls his arms out of his sleeves, leaving his coat draped over the back of the seat and his arms blessedly bare.
That draws some looks, he knows. “Joker-?”
“I’m fine,” he assures Makoto, staring straight out the windshield. They’re done here for today.
Back in the real world, the sensations fade to nearly nothing. Akira breathes an internal sigh of relief. Mementos can do weird things to a person, and they’d probably been in there too long today.
He gets jostled a bit in the crowd on his way back to Leblanc. It makes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickle.
It’s fine. It’ll be gone tomorrow.
It’s not gone tomorrow.
“Hey man!” Ryuji’s voice is loud over the early morning crowds. Akira turns immediately to his best friend as he approaches. “I know we just ran Mementos yesterday, but you wanna train some after school today?”
Truthfully, he’s already weary from trying to avoid contact in the crowded trains, but it’s hard not to bask in the natural warmth Ryuji offers. “Sounds good.” Akira adjusts the strap of his bag, everywhere it presses his uniform into his skin a nuisance.
“A’right!” he cheers. “It’s leg day, so how ‘bout a run?”
He’s- weak. Thirsty, says a Futaba-shaped voice in his head. “Whatever you were planning is good.” He shrugs. “You’re the expert.”
The slight flush on Ryuji’s cheeks and humble shuffling is all the encouragement Akira needs. It doesn’t take much to boost Ryuji’s ego, and he can’t deny that he loves doing it. “No probs. Wasn’t planning much, really, but if you wanna come with?”
“I’ll meet you after class,” Akira confirms with a nod.
The rest of the trip to school is uneventful, save for the awful itching under his skin whenever someone bumps him or elbows him - basically the whole trip on the crowded train. He’s never looked forward to Ushimaru’s class more than in the twenty minutes it takes to get to Aoyama.
After school, Akira heads directly to the stairwell. It must be early - or Ryuji’s late. He’s not at the base of the stairs yet, but it’s not five minutes before he hears a cheerful “Akira!” from behind him. He turns too slow, and Ryuji locks an arm around the back of his neck in a friendly half-headlock. It feels normal, refreshingly so.
Well, except that there’s nothing normal about the full body shudder the wracks through him at the instant Ryuji makes contact.
Ryuji steps off immediately, giving him space. “Whoa, you alright?”
“Yeah. You just- startled me.” It’s a flat excuse to his own ears, but Ryuji seems satisfied.
“Kay.” He replaces his arm, looser this time. Akira tries to listen to Ryuji’s excuse about why he’s late, he really does, but it feels like he’s hitting him with repeated ziongas all along the length of his arm and wherever he’s pressed against Akira’s side. He wishes he could attribute his accelerated pulse to that, but honestly, it just happens every time he gets any closer than an arm’s length to Ryuji.
The other thing - the more serious, might-actually-be-dangerous-thing - is just making him jittery. It doesn’t feel particularly good or bad, but it makes it impossible to think, almost buckles his knees. It’s intense, and it’s only getting more.
Running might actually help for once, rather than making him feel like dying. He ducks out from under Ryuji’s arm carefully. “Can you give me a few to change?”
“For sure, man. I gotta too, I’ll come with you.” Oh. Good. That’s… good.
Ryuji nudges him, shoves him playfully, in general acts affectionate and bro-y and does absolutely everything to drive Akira up the wall. He changes faster than he can ever remember doing and only just prevents himself from sprinting out of the locker room.
Running actually does help a lot. Ryuji can’t touch him while they’re running, but the wind feels nice through his hair and on his face; like soft fingers, soothing and cool. He can even ignore the awful irritation of his sweatsuit on his skin by focusing on the burn of muscle in his legs and the rhythm of his breathing. Before he knows it, he realizes that they actually made it as far as Inokashira.
Ryuji looks impressed as they slow for a break near the pond. “We done for the day?” he asks, leaning against a tree. Akira’s hands are on his knees as he recovers and he looks at up at him, considering. They could stop now. They could take the train back to Aoyama from here, but that would mean cramming themselves underground one extra time today. It would mean jostling up against all those strangers and being pressed to Ryuji, flushed and energized. Getting some exercise had helped, but he doesn’t want to put himself back on edge like that.
Akira stands straight, still getting his breath back. “Bet I beat you back to Shujin,” he challenges, a jolt running through his chest at the glint of completion that flashes in Ryuji’s eyes.
“Hell no!” He’s grinning full out now.
Akira smirks. “Loser buys beef bowls.”
Ryuji groans. “Dude. You have an employee discount.”
“Fine. If I lose, I’ll buy ramen. If you lose, beef bowls.”
“You’re on.” Ryuji pushes off from the tree. “Y’know, if you still have the energy to make bets and run back to school, we could prolly add some more weights to gym days.”
“Absolutely not,” Akira denies flatly.
Ryuji laughs and shoulder-checks him. Akira strains out a laugh, but he returns the bump regardless.
Akira owes Ryuji ramen.
He tries not to pout about it, but from the teasing poke to the cheek he gets, it’s clear he’s not succeeding. That, plus the herculean task of trying not to touch a single person on a Friday afternoon in Tokyo, gives Akira a sharp craving for caffeine and isolation.
He can satisfy one of those things, at least. Leblanc is empty when they arrive - as per usual, though Akira would never say that aloud - and Sojiro raises his eyebrows. “Ah, you’re back. Mind manning the counter for a little while?”
Akira can’t exactly say no . Besides, it makes it easy to coax Ryuji into sitting at the bar. It wedges the counter between them and gives him a good excuse for it - he feels guilty for thinking that it’s one of the best things to happen all day.
Still. His displeased moue is still in place as he watches Sojiro hurry out the door. He’s distracted when he passes Ryuji a soda, and that’s his biggest mistake of the day.
He should have known better. He should have been paying attention.
There’s soda all over the counter and Ryuji’s on his feet in a flash, dodging the spill as it pours onto the floor. He stares at the mess, then at Akira, and no, he doesn’t like that look. That’s a look that says he slipped up, a look that tells him Ryuji absolutely noticed that Akira jumped a mile and dropped a whole glass when their fingers brushed.
Akira sucks in a breath and grabs a rag. There’s no way he can meet Ryuji’s eyes - not when they’re suspicious and puzzling and concerned.
“I’ll help,” Ryuji tells him, coming behind the counter.
Akira shakes his head tightly. “I got it.” Ryuji picks up a damp cloth anyway. Of course he wouldn’t just sit there and watch; Akira knows his best friend better than that.
He can also see the wary looks Ryuji keeps shooting at him in his peripheral vision, but studiously ignores them. If he doesn’t clean this now, it’ll get all sticky. And there’s another lame excuse. He can barely convince himself of anything today.
They’re going to have to actually discuss this eventually. There’s only so much weird behavior that Akira can get away with before he can’t dismiss it anymore. It coils a pit in his stomach like he’s been lying. Ryuji is too quiet while they clean, and it makes his mind race and jump to the worst possible conclusions.
It takes about fifteen minutes to wipe down every inch the soda spilled over. It takes five more minutes for Sojiro to return, smell the chemical disinfectant, and see the suspiciously clean counter.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Can’t even leave you to it for a half hour, can I? Well, no one was here, so it’s fine.” He flicks his head toward the stairs in a clear dismissal. “Least you two cleaned up. Just don’t make too much noise up there.”
The back of Akira’s neck prickles at Ryuji’s proximity as they climb, every step putting Ryuji closer on his heels. Any second, he’s going to get a good dressing down for hiding this, a worried but stern argument about trusting his team and relying on Ryuji and-
“Wanna play Punch Ouch?”
-uh. Well, yeah, always. Of course a lecture isn’t Ryuji’s style. Not to mention, they have to sit apart to concentrate, and he’ll be damned if Ryuji is kicking his ass at this too today. He nods and turns for the controllers.
And nearly jumps right the fuck out of his skin when Ryuji pokes him in the back of the neck.
“What the hell was that?!” Ryuji demands.
Akira’s caught. He can’t pretend anymore; can’t pretend he hasn’t been avoiding contact, can’t pretend everything’s okay, really can’t pretend he didn’t just shriek and clap a hand over the back of his neck like a scandalized nun.
His mouth opens like a mute fish. Ryuji doesn’t look mad, at the very least. Somehow the little pinch of worry in his brow is worse. He hates to admit that he doesn’t know what the matter is. It makes him feel like he’s let the Thieves down whenever, as their leader, he has to admit he’s clueless about something in the Metaverse. But… he has to. And he will. This is Ryuji . He’s been there since the beginning and he gets it, how weird and terrifying the Metaverse can be, and how reluctant they all are to admit how little they actually know about it.
“...I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anything dangerous, but…” He takes a deep breath, preparing for the worst.
And then, Akira has to remind himself that this is Ryuji, and he’s definitely the most likely out of all of the Thieves to pull out his phone right here and suggest an impromptu trip to Mementos.
“If we go in together it’ll be safer than you goin’ in alone, right? And I know you, man. I won’t let you do this by yourself.”
The prospect of going in with Ryuji isn’t unappealing in and of itself. Hi, I’m Kurusu Akira, and I’m an adrenaholic-
It’s a bad idea. If Makoto ever found out? He doesn’t even want to think about it.
“No, it’s okay. I won’t do anything stupid.” He puts real weight on his words. “I’ll call everyone here tomorrow, alright? We just went in yesterday. I don’t want to bother them again so soon.”
“You know they wouldn’t mind.” Ryuji doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he reluctantly slides his phone into his pocket anyway. “But, if you say so.”
“I really don’t think it’s dangerous,” he insists. “I feel fine. Honestly.”
Ryuji raises a short eyebrow at him, which- is fair, honestly.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he clarifies. “I promise. I wouldn’t lie about that. It’s just… weird, is all.”
“No, I believe you, man.” Ryuji’s curiosity has finally taken over, it seems. “So then, what does it feel like? Like, if I-”
Akira hisses out a curse as Ryuji claps him on the shoulder. He’s not rough, but… certainly enthusiastic.
Ryuji makes a little noise of indignation. “Dude, you just said it didn’t hurt!”
“It doesn’t. It’s like-” It’s like a million pins and needles latching onto every little fluctuation in pressure on his entire body, and electrifying at human touch. “It’s just intense.”
“Through your clothes, too?”
“Yeah,” he grits out.
Fuck natural curiosity. That’s what they’re probably going to find at the bottom of Mementos, not a human form for Morgana or answers of any kind. Also, while he’s at it, fuck turtlenecks and fuck uniforms because the only place aside from his hands that’s bare is his face. It’s because Ryuji’s fucking curious that his thumb skims over his jaw like it’s absolutely normal.
Sweat prickles at Akira’s forehead. His face warms everywhere except for at the point of contact, where it burns, and a stupid half-breathless noise escapes his throat.
Ryuji’s peering close like Akira’s some English phrase in his homework, detached and quizzical, while he cups his cheek and chin. He wants to know how it feels ? Well, Akira can tell him. It feels like his skin is about to burst into flames, and then ignite the rest of his body internally like faulty wiring in an old house. It feels like lightning striking sand, turning it to fractal towers of quaking, white hot glass.
“Is that different?”
“It’s… not bad,” Akira croaks out. His voice almost doesn’t crack.
“Is it worse in different places?”
Akira takes a steadying breath that does nothing. “How should I know?” It probably is, since the arm on his shoulder did not feel remotely like this, but it could be the bare skin. It could be that this feels like a first touch, a beginning. He’s having trouble thinking.
This has to end this now if he wants to stay sane. It’s getting dangerous, being a specimen - and he’s enjoying being a specimen. He reaches up to gently pull him away, push him to at least a six foot distance and possibly to the opposite side of the room.
That doesn’t happen. Instead, Ryuji chooses the worst possible moment to twitch. His thumb brushes the corner of Akira’s mouth and Akira’s hand decides of its own volition to lock around Ryuji’s wrist.
And god, he doesn’t want to call the noise that comes out of him a whimper, but… it’s a whimper. He should yank Ryuji’s hand away, put some distance between them, dump a glass of ice over his own head.
Akira doesn’t do any of those perfectly rational things.
No other touch today felt this good - felt good at all. He had to tolerate them, could barely even do that. Fucking- this, though. This he could get used to. He can’t breathe.
He thinks he’s shaking. It doesn’t matter. He’s wiped the passive expression off Ryuji’s face in favor of something wide-eyed and dumbstruck.
“Huh. Shit,” he exhales. “Wonder what…” His fingers press in, make tiny, gentle indents in Akira’s lip. His eyes try to fall shut but he fights them open, probably ending up as more of a weird flutter of his eyelashes. He can’t see straight.
There are zero thoughts in his mind when he lurches forward and grabs the back of Ryuji’s neck. It ignites his fingertips, palms, down his wrist, all the way to his elbow.
He’s in no shape to be teased like this and Ryuji needs to learn there are fucking consequences to his actions. Consequences like getting fingers trapped for a half a second between their lips; Akira can’t even deny that he makes a noise this time. It’s high and helpless and matches the way he has to grip Ryuji’s blazer to keep from tumbling off his own feet.
How could he have thought Ryuji’s hands on him were intense? This is what kissing a bolt of lightning feels like. It crackles full-force to the back of his throat, down his spine, and, with Akira a hundred miles past hypersensitive, brings everything to immediate attention.
All at once, his skin is crawling. Some primal corner of his brain takes over the thoughts department. There’s so much of the wrong kind of sensation on his skin and he wants it gone - he wants everything gone except for the touch of air and skin. That drive supersedes everything else.
He lets go of Ryuji’s lapel and tries to shake that hand out of his own blazer. It jostles them apart, makes Ryuji stop. There’s that look in his eyes again, the one that Akira doesn’t want to see. He can’t take this away from him now, not now that Akira’s committed and pushed into this step. It’s a step he’s wanted to take every day from the start and one he wanted to wait for, but he has advanced and retreat is no longer an option.
Akira flails his arm back and forth until he’s free and his blazer hangs from one shoulder and arm like a cape. Before anything stops him, he grasps Ryuji’s face to bring him back, his parted mouth slotting against his own.
It isn’t immediate by any means. Ryuji’s lips move against his at a slow, hesitant pace, and it takes a frustrating, worrying amount of time before, one at a time, his hands cup Akira’s jaw to keep him in place. His fingertips brush the delicate skin under his ears, teasing into the ends of his hair. Akira takes the chance to struggle all the way out of his leaden jacket.
His body isn’t satisfied, nagging that he needs to get his shirt off. The thin, cheap fabric feels more like sandpaper than cotton, but he shoves it back. He needs Ryuji more.
Akira doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t have the option to hesitate with every nerve ending screaming for contact, but standing itself presents its own obstacles. He can press his body up against Ryuji’s, hold him plastered to his front until he can no longer stand if he really wants to, but the thought of that makes him whine into their kiss. He can imagine instead Ryuji on top of him, Ryuji caging him from above, Ryuji pinning him down, and it’s all infinitely preferable.
If he backs up, he’ll hit something flat eventually. It takes about three steps until the back of his knees hit the old cafe bench. Ryuji dutifully follows him down, chasing his lips when he lowers himself too quickly, too eagerly, to the cushion. His hands brace him, framing Akira’s hips, but he knows how Ryuji will be more comfortable, rather than bent at the waist. This isn’t enough.
He has more sensitive spots than just his lips, he needs Ryuji on him touching them, mouthing across them now. “C’mon,” Akira whispers across his lips. It pulls a choked-off noise from above him. Ryuji blinks his eyes open to meet Akira’s. They’re glazed, and it relieves him slightly to see that given how hazy his feel.
One hand fists in Ryuji’s tee, holding him fast so he can swing his legs up. Ryuji gets the idea. He crawls over him, narrowing Akira’s world to the too-small couch and dizzying him at every single point of contact.
He needs to breathe, needs to get this awful fucking sweater off - his brain is a hazy mush of touch and absence of touch.
Ryuji’s leg slides into the space between his knees, crowding himself so much closer and lower that Akira nearly sobs, grinding up into Ryuji’s thigh at the salvation of promised friction. It’s too rough against the fabric of his pants, he hates it, needs it, loves it, and it’s not enough. He hooks his leg around Ryuji’s hip so that there’s nothing but too much clothing between them.
Akira’s hips roll up; he can feel the hard line of Ryuji’s erection through his pants. “Fuck, Akira,” he hisses. His teeth bite hard and sharp down on his lip, a shock like a getting hooked up to car battery violently wracking its way down his spine.
Ryuji touches his jaw again, shoving his thumb under the collar of Akira’s turtleneck to stroke at his pulse. He can’t help melting at that, falling apart in the valley between the rough and gentle way Ryuji’s handling him. He pushes his hips into Akira once, testing, and when Akira nods nonsensically he presses again, groaning into the messy kiss.
Akira could- he could do this forever, the heat in his chest feeding off the friction. He needs it, needs this, please, please more, “Ryuji please -”
He’s not even sure how much of that he said, only that as soon as he does Ryuji’s hand leaves his neck and his lips leave Akira’s bruised and slick. “No,” he whimpers, barely opening his mouth over the word.
His voice shakes against his will. His whole body shakes, in fact, with the sudden loss, and he’s deprived and it hurts.
“One sec, babe,” Ryuji’s exhaled words curl sweetly in Akira’s ears from under his chin.
A hand skates down his side, too light over his shirt, and there’s a curl of a smile ghosting over the skin of his throat. Akira arches up to feel both more intensely, he wants it, but Ryuji pulls away like a teasing dance. He vocalizes- something, though he doesn’t know what.
And then Ryuji gives him everything at once. A hand, firm and warm and splayed out, shoved up his sweater, teeth in his Adam’s apple.
He trembles and cries out, can’t take it anymore. It’s too much, too much.
“More,” he whines, “More, please, don’t stop.” He’s a writhing mess, laid out and panting at relatively nothing and he knows it, but it’s a small corner of his brain. The rest clamors and demands for the electricity flying across and under his skin to never stop, never, never, it burns and screams pleasure-pain on every nerve ending.
That’s the crest of it, the sharp suddenness he’s brought to at the peak. It fizzles into a sparking, twitching burn. He’s had a taste now, he needs more. He’s begging before he knows it.
“Take it off, ‘Yuji I can’t-” Ryuji breathes a curse across his skin and jumps into action, sitting back. It shoves his thigh into another angle, right up against Akira’s dick, and he feels hot tears filling his eyes. God, the pressure is so- fucking- good -
Ryuji freezes in a panic above him. “Shit, you okay?”
All he can do is nod frantically, fist the fabric of his sweater in his hand. How does he explain? Ryuji should know that everything he does is a white-hot poker of pleasure straight into his spine. He opens his mouth and only comes out with, “Off, off, now, please, off.”
He truly, honestly tries to help, but his arms feel like custard. He’s so gentle, despite everything, when he slides Akira’s glasses off his nose and sets them aside. The way Ryuji’s knuckles graze over his abs as he eases the turtleneck over his head has nothing to do with the warmth that simmers in his chest.
“Better?” Ryuji tosses his sweater to the floor and pauses a second to thumb gently at the corners of Akira’s eyes. Had those tears actually come free? He blames it on sheer relief and clumsily loops his arms around Ryuji’s neck and tugs him down without a verbal answer.
Ryuji lets him get away with a short, indulgent kiss. Akira doesn’t even mind when he pulls back. He’s under the waves of cool bliss, no longer being choked and chafed, and he has Ryuji shifting in time with his hips. He runs calloused and lightly combat-weathered hands up and down Akira’s sides. Ryuji himself is warm and affectionate despite his hands being rougher than the shirt, pressing kisses below his collarbone. His lips make Akira’s skin light up again. This time, it’s all warm heat and no subconscious protests about unwanted cloth ruining things. He can just about ignore it over his groin, since it’s no longer so all-encompassing.
Some of the strength leaches back into his arms and he drags a hand up the back of Ryuji’s neck, nails scraping into the fine hair at the nape of his neck. Tension under his fingers makes Akira crane his neck up to see what’s wrong. He hasn’t done anything, has he?
It’s the opposite of that, as it turns out. There’s a hot rush of damp breath inches from his skin, and then the intense, concentrated wet heat of Ryuji’s tongue sweeping over his nipple. Fucking Christ he wasn’t expecting that - his strangled yell would have been loud enough to hear out the door downstairs, but Ryuji’s reflexes are better. He clamps a hand over Akira’s mouth the instant he opens it and, silenced, he devolves into muffled babbling.
He’s only halfway aware of anything. He might be begging into Ryuji’s hand (he is: an incoherent mess, a steady stream of “fuck, fuck fuck shit Ryuji god please” ), the sides of his face are wet again, and his lips tingle like cayenne where Ryuji’s palm is pressed to them.
Akira gives in to the compulsion to sob again. His body just keeps wanting more, more, more, even as it gets catapulted from contentment to searing pleasure - it pushes and clamors for better and hotter and he can’t fucking take it.
His dick is soaking through his pants and he can’t rut against Ryuji’s thigh anymore, not with him bent like he is; it’s an injustice. Even under the dizzying, white hot pinpoint of blind pleasure that is Ryuji’s tongue, he’s about ready to scratch and claw his way out of his skin again. If he can get his pants off - if he can just free himself - fuck, if he can just get a hand on himself or have Ryuji do it -
Ryuji’s busy, though, experimenting to see what makes Akira shake, what makes him heave long, dry sobs, what makes him sink his teeth into Ryuji’s fingers rather than making noise.
Subtle is not something within his abilities anymore. He squirms, his hand sliding down to open his pants and relieve that unbearable pressure - that’s so much better. The part of him that wanted Ryuji to see is thrilled when he shakes his head.
“Shit, Akira, I didn’t realize - let me, I got you.”
He bats Akira’s hands away, not that it’s difficult - not that Akira resists - keeps muttering under his breath. “Shoulda known, sorry, it’s okay. I got you, just trust me.” Ryuji says that and immediately there’s only one person Akira trusts in the entire universe.
Ryuji’s hand is still over his mouth and the other is on his dripping cock - Akira’s entire body is snapped and tight, arched into the contact. He’s on fire, he must be burning alive, that’s the only possible way he could have his blood roaring in his ears and sparks flying over his skin like this. He’s not even human anymore, just a desperate and destroyed ember laid out by Ryuji, Ryuji Ryuji RyujiRyuji-
He rubs a tight circle under the head of Akira’s dick - his eyes roll back and he screams.
Ryuji’s hands are on his face. He looks a little winded, eyes huge, cheeks red, saying Akira’s name unsteadily.
Akira lolls his head to the side and lets out a weak little moan. Do his limbs even still work? They feel fuzzy and light, like his brain. Dazed, he rakes his eyes over Ryuji as he sits back, looking unfairly put together by comparison. His shirt isn’t even off, though his blazer is gone, and his pants are undone and not entirely clean.
Ryuji chuckles a little hysterically. He opens his mouth, closes it, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never fuckin’ seen anything like that before.” He shakes his head, still staring into middle distance. “Goddamn dude, that was...” he trails off, his attention snapping back to Akira. “Are you sure you’re okay? Y’kinda passed out, there.”
He’s just tired. Holy shit is he tired. He could sleep for a whole month. His mouth barely moves the way he wants it to so he settles for nodding instead of trying to make words.
Now that he’s actually getting feeling back to his body, his skin feels tight. Ugh... sticky. Sluggishly, he rubs at his eyes and cheeks and touches his stomach gingerly, expecting a mess. Ryuji looks a little sheepish when he finds nothing. “Uh, I mighta… used your uniform.”
Akira wheezes out an exhausted laugh. Ryuji joins in, ducking his head in palpable embarrassment, and settles over him. It’s a squeeze, but Akira’s grateful that he doesn’t have to move yet.
Ryuji’s nose brushes his. “Hey, can I…?” Akira doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he opens them to see Ryuji’s gaze flicker up from his mouth.
Can he- what, kiss him? What kind of a question is that? Akira lifts his chin and fits his lips softly to Ryuji’s. “Course,” he says in the warm air between them.
“Didn’t wanna assume,” Ryuji mumbles, slipping his arm under Akira’s neck. “Are you good now?”
Akira smiles at his concern and takes inventory for a second. His skin won’t stop buzzing, but it’s almost soothing now compared to the irritation from before. “I’m good.” Things are still a little hazy, but Ryuji grins and presses his forehead to Akira’s temple and everything else zooms out to the background. “Are we good?”
“Of course we’re good,” Ryuji tells him with a casual enthusiasm that makes his breath catch in the back of his throat.
Akira’s chest swells. “Good,” he sighs. His nose finds the juncture of Ryuji’s neck and shoulder and he takes a slow moment to inhale, exhale. Ryuji is real and here, and smells vaguely of sex and sweat. He feels a kiss pressed to his crown when he winds an arm around Ryuji’s waist.
His voice is muffled and gentle in Akira’s hair. “Next time in your bed, though, kay?”
Akira nearly chokes on air, no longer quite so close to the verge of sleep. “Okay,” he mumbles into Ryuji’s skin, and squeezes him around the middle when he feels him shudder. Yes. Yes, absolutely.