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Here We Are and We Won't Stop Breathing

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“Stop looking at the door. I talked to Hulk. No one’s coming in.” 

Nakajima hadn’t realized he had been glancing at the door from over Hayato’s shoulder. He pulled back, distancing himself to look at the man in front of him. His lips were already kiss-swollen, hanging open as they slowly shifted into a knowing smirk. His eyes flickered as he stepped forward, backing Nakajima towards a locker room bench until Katsuhiko had no choice but to sit down. 

“’re not afraid of someone walking in?” He slid into Nakajima’s lap with ease, long limbs straddling his clothed cock, eagerly stirring to life once again. Hayato smelled like their match still, thick with sweat and desire. Katsuhiko could feel his own nostrils flare at the scent.  Hayato was so ready for him, just from the match they had together, and Katsuhiko almost felt ashamed at how much it turned him on. He rested his hands on Hayato’s hips, guiding him inward with his breath caught in his throat. 

“Are you just some kind of voyeur? Or...” Hayato’s breath was hot in his ear, licking right along the helix until Nakajima gasped. Nakajima’s fingers gripped into the skin of Hayato’s hips, reaching under his thin velvet shorts. “Is there someone you want to see us like this?” He bit into Nakajima’s earlobe, pulling gently even as Katsuhiko’s hands stilled. 

He wasn’t sure if this was foreplay or if he was genuinely doing something wrong. He couldn’t tell if Hayato was genuinely insulted by his lack of attention or just having fun. He let out a stuttering breath and a hum, trying to find the words that couldn’t bring himself to ask. His brow furrowed, but Hayato didn’t stop moving, nuzzling into him, his clothed erection pushed against Nakajima’s stomach. 

“Who is it?” Hayato continued, and Nakajima could feel the smile against his skin. “Couldn’t be Mashimo, right?” 

Nakajima grunted, his heart picking up its pace for all the wrong reasons. But Hayato was still so hard, still so thick with sweat and arousal. Katsuhiko felt trapped in more ways than one, and all he could hope to do was to find a way to make Hayato shut up before he got too close to his heart. 

“Miyahara, maybe?” Hayato’s hands drifted up from Katsuhiko’s shoulders up to his head, digging into his hair and tugging gently, pulling Nakajima’s back. 

“It’s none of your business,” Nakajima managed to grumble, his vocal cords vibrating against Hayato’s tongue, making his voice sound as hollow as it felt. 

“Then what about that new guy? The trainee? I saw you two practicing before the show. Kita...something.” 

Nakajima wondered if Hayato could feel his heart stop. If he could hear the sharp intake of breath giving himself away. Nakajima’s hands fumbled uselessly into the waistband of Hayato’s pants, searching for his ass, searching for anything to change the subject. 

Hayato laughed, tongue sticking out a little, cocky grin growing on his face, like he had just landed a firm strike on Nakajima’s chest. “So that’s it. You want him to see you like this? Covered in sweat and hard and desperate for someone’s tou-” 

Nakajima didn’t let him finish, heat rising to his face as he surged forward. The humiliation made him angry, sick almost. He toppled Hayato to the floor, both of them falling off of the bench until Nakajima was on top of Hayato. He straddled the other man’s lap, arms holding down his shoulders, his hands shaking with embarrassment and anger and guilt. More exposed than anyone ever dared to make him feel, the chosen heir of Kensuke Sasaki, the prodigy no one could seem to touch. Hayato had gotten in, somehow, and Katsuhiko didn’t know what to do with that. 

When he stared down at Hayato, the man was looking up at him with his lips parted, eyes wild and hungry, bewildered and wanting. They had fallen to the floor with a hard thud, but Hayato didn’t look injured at all. He merely splayed his arms out, inviting Nakajima to hold him down by the wrists. To take it all out on him. It wasn’t an apology. It was merely what Hayato had wanted from the start: to be as much rivals here as they were in the ring. As heated on the dirty locker room floor as they were out there, among the crowds of Korakuen hall. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Nakajima finally said, and Hayato’s eyes flickered. Finally, the guilt began to fade, and Katsuhiko realized he had finally done something right. He shifted his hands down to hold Hayato by the wrists, squeezing his thighs around Hayato’s hips, making it clear the smaller man couldn’t escape. “Just shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me,” Hayato’s grin couldn’t get any wider, desperately grinding his hips against Nakajima, trying to find any friction he could. Nakajima forced his own hips down, pushing himself into Hayato, pulling up his arms above his head. He slammed his lips down into a sloppy kiss, wondering how many times Hayato had played this game, and the kind of person he had played it with. 

He rutted against Hayato like this for a few moments, until Katsuhiko’s eyes fluttered shut into a groan. It was only a second of vulnerability, but Hayato took it anyway, sliding his hands down and around Nakajima’s arms, twisting him over with practiced ease. Nakajima’s head was swimming, and could barely register the way Hayato turned him over, pulling his legs up above his shoulders so he could slide off Katsuhiko's shorts. 

Nakajima fought back, kicking out of his shorts and sliding to sit up straight, not caring if he kicked Hayato in the process. Hayato grunted from the impact, but it didn’t do anything to slow the man down. He scrambled, as though chasing after both the pleasure and the pain. 

Nakajima felt freshly exposed all over again, the locker room suddenly cold as he realized how naked he was against Hayato, both on their knees with their chests touching, their breaths mixed together. But this time, the embarrassment mixed with his own lust, finding a comfortable place inside the heat in his stomach. He thumbed under the waistband of Hayato’s gear, as though asking for permission. Hayato just smiled, moving into Nakajima’s neck again. 

“Go ahead,” he whispered, and then bit hard as Nakajima began to pull down. 

Hayato was relentless, sinking his teeth into Nakajima’s neck like he wanted to own him, and Katsuhiko nearly fell backwards from the pleasure. He had never felt like that before, not really. He couldn’t explain what it was doing to him, to be marked by someone else, to belong to them in some way. 

He fell to his ass as Hayato straddled him again, pulling his head back by his hair to expose the other side of his neck. They were both totally naked now, hard against each other and losing all track of time in their little locker room escape. 

Nakajima’s eyes drifted shut and he thought about the training session from before the show. He wondered if this was what it would feel like. Kitamiya snapping and growing impatient with Nakajima’s constant drills. Kitamiya holding him down and wrestling him into submission. Kitamiya sinking his teeth into him, not caring if everyone at the show could see who Nakajima belonged to. Kitamiya turning Nakajima into hi-

He slid back, horrified at the pleasure surging through him. His back hit a row of lockers as the guilt returned, wondering if he should apologize for a fantasy that he barely realized he was having. Hayato was right in front of him, beautiful and soft and muscular and willing. Every bit the prodigy that Nakajima was, every bit the perfect match for him. And yet…

“Hey,” Hayato’s voice was suddenly soft, his eyes shifting from their defiant cruelty to something softer, something more natural. Something akin to the Hayato he had met 7 years ago, both of them brand new to wrestling, both of them prizes to be paraded around. 

“It’s okay,” Hayato then said, tentatively placing his hand on Nakajima’s shoulder, fingers drumming nervously against his skin. Nakajima realized that he wasn’t the only one having trouble navigating the needs of the other man. “I’m also…” he huffed, trying to find the words for his confession. 

“I’m also trying to forget.” 

The words rang out in the locker room and Nakajima had to wonder if there was truly an echo, or if the way Hayato looked at him simply was reverberating in his skull. Katsuhiko let his hand drift up towards Hayato’s thick hair, contrasting so starkly with Kitamiya’s freshly shaven head, and his eyes slid shut gently as he combed his fingers through. He let the motion ground him, and after a minute, he felt Hayato’s fingers against his own scalp, nails scratching gently, doing the same. They really were mirror images, after all, trying to gently scrub the thoughts out of the other. 

This time, the kiss was much more tender. Hayato slid in, reaching backwards for some lube that he had left on the bench, trying desperately not to break the kiss as he did so. Nakajima’s cock slowly began to stir back to life, thinking about Hayato. Thinking about how much they could use each other. How much he was needed right now, kissing away some ghost that Hayato couldn’t escape from. 

Hayato finally pulled away enough to uncap the bottle of lube and Nakajima chased after his lips, looking for more. Hayato laughed, sliding back in as soon as his hand was coated. The kiss became heated again, their lips meeting and biting and finding a rhythm with each other for the first time since they left the ring, finally feeling as in-sync as they were when they fought. 

Hayato wrapped his hand around both his and Nakajima’s cock, pressing them together. Nakajima felt the moan ripped out of him, directly into Hayato’s mouth, as he wrapped his own hand around their cocks as well. They could pull together. They could work together like this, two prized prodigies set along their chosen paths, so desperately chasing after something that couldn’t be found inside that locker room. 

Nakajima came with a stuttered gasp just before Hayato could, and Hayato panted into Nakajima’s ear, refusing to let go. Nakajima’s head was spinning with release, his body still shuddering as Hayato pumped at his spent cock, his hand growing more and more desperate. 

“Bite me too,” Hayato’s voice was a frantic whisper, mouth against Nakajima’s forehead, almost in a fond kiss. “Bite me as hard as you possibly can.” 

Whoever had gotten into Hayato had gotten in deep. Deeper than Nakajima had let in Kitamiya, deeper than Kitamiya would likely let him go. Nakajima had always been jealous of Hayato’s smile, of his free spirit. But he realized then that Hayato had let his free spirit stumble into something he couldn’t get out of, and needed something sharp to carve it out. 

Nakajima bit down like a wolf biting its prey. He sunk his teeth in and Hayato gasped like he was being set free. Nakajima worried at the bite until Hayato exhaled, coming all over both of their hands, mixing with Nakajima. His lips hung open, his eyes fluttering in relief. Nakajima kissed the curve of his throat, suddenly fond, suddenly overtaken by how beautiful the man in his lap truly was. 

Katsuhiko still wasn’t what Hayato needed. But for the first time since they entered the locker room, that felt fine. Hayato wasn’t really what he needed either. It was a strange, foreign thing to accept. But Nakajima was finding a way to accept it, dirty and content, with Hayato slumping into his arms, as spent as he was. 

“We’re running out of time,” Nakajima mumbled, not brave enough to actually check his phone to see how long they had been there. He didn’t need to see any messages from anyone in the dojo. Much less from Kitamiya, looking for him like he cared about him. Not after Nakajima did everything he could to forget him. 

“Right. Shit. I still need to shower.” Hayato groaned, his voice almost slurred from pleasure, suddenly more agreeable than he had been all night. Nakajima couldn’t help but card his fingers through Hayato’s hair, somehow even stiffer with sweat than before. 

“Same here. Join me?” Nakajima asked, and Hayato finally pulled back. Nakajima gently removed his hands, faltering as his heart fell, wondering if he had done something wrong again. Wondering if his entire life with Hayato would be nothing but a series of missteps. 

Hayato seemed to have seen it on his face, blinking and then shaking his head. “No. That’s not it. Yeah, I’ll join you. He just...never asks.” His voice sounded so hollow, like he had been waiting so long for someone else to invite him to shower, to invite him to stay. Nakajima tried to remind himself that it wasn’t an insult to be second place. Hayato was second place too. 

“I haven’t even gotten that far, with mine,” Nakajima then said in weak consolation, trying so hard not to ask Hayato for the other man’s name. Who it was that had gotten so deep into his skin that he needed it fucked out of him, in ways that Nakajima simply couldn’t provide in a quick post-show hookup. 

Hayato laughed as he climbed off of him, washing his hands off in the sink as though they both weren’t covered in each other’s sweat and cum. “You could just ask the guy.” 

“I don’t want love advice from you.” Nakajima blinked, dusting himself off as he stood up as well, grabbing for his gear and inspecting it before carefully putting it away to be cleaned later. 

“Good. Thank god, actually.” Hayato looked over his shoulder as he pulled back the curtains, glancing around the corner to see if Nakajima was behind him. There were two showers in the locker room. They didn’t have to share, not really. But it felt right. Nakajima couldn’t give Hayato a lot of things. Hayato couldn’t give him a lot either. But they could give each other this, finding comfort in their rivalry and their similarities. 

Nakajima climbed in after Hayato and they fell into silence, washing up entirely on their own, switching spots under the water as they needed. Hayato was lost in himself, pressed against Nakajima’s body but otherwise completely in his own world, water settling on his long eyelashes, soap suds pulling through his hair. Nakajima only watched, the guilt stirring once again because all he wanted was to be in that shower with someone else. Hayato knew that, and he didn’t mind. And that wasn’t nothing. 

Nakajima reached around for the shampoo, lathering it through his hair and shaking out his hands. Things felt casual now, with Hayato wrapping his hand around Katsuhiko’s waist, positioning him underneath the stream of water. He finally felt open enough, vulnerable enough to try to get Hayato to open up to him as well. “What’s his name?” 

However, Hayato just shook his head, eyes a little distant, but not offended. “It’s not important. Just some asshole from work. Pray you never meet him.” 

“Now you just have me curious.” Nakajima snorted, tilting back his head to rinse out his hair. He lowered his eyes just a little, to see if Hayato was still watching him. He felt a surge of pride as he watched Hayato’s eyes trail along the lines of his throat, peppered with bites and welts. Like they had really helped each other out. 

When Nakajima lowered his head, the spell was broken, and Hayato just laughed. He ran his fingers through his own hair, combing it out. “Yeah? You wouldn’t be able to handle him. Try not to seek him out.” 

“Well,” Nakajima finally huffed out, turning off the water and stepping out. Hayato followed him, a casual smile on his face as he wrapped the towel around his waist. And for the first time all evening, Nakajima felt himself smile as well, matching Hayato once again. It felt cocky, teasing. Almost wolfish. He liked it, he decided. It felt right, grinning at his rival, his perfect equal. “I’ll try not to. But I can’t make any promises.”