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After what you've lovingly decided to nickname The Incident, Sou avoids you.
You can't say you're overly surprised at this development. I mean, it wasn't as though he was tripping over himself to spend time with you before, but he at least seemed to regard you on the same level as, say, Sara or Keiji. That is, he liked being around you only if he was sure he had something to hold over your head, some snide remark to slip between the soft sibilance of his speech, some assurance that he had the upper ground.
But now, he skitters off whenever you enter the room. It's gotten so that the more observant among you have definitely noticed. Keiji's slate eyes linger upon you for a few flatly curious moments whenever Sou hightails it out of the door, but you suspect he has enough on his plate already that he can't be bothered asking. Sara, it seems, has also caught on; she is much less subtle in her calculating glances than the cop, unsurprisingly, and the uneasiness you feel when you realise her sharp eyes have caught you staring after Sou more often than not leaves you rattled. Nao's world no longer extends beyond the borders of the IT room with Mishima's AI on it, and Reko is too busy worrying herself over her good friend to notice much else either. You suppose you should count your blessings.
After a while, though, it stops feeling like a victory and starts to feel just a little boring. You'd only done it for the triumph, obviously, but it was no good when you couldn't catch his eye and smile some gloating smile; if not, it only soured into a shameful secret, poisonous roots digging into your heart and flowering out through your veins.
And - before you even realise, let alone give permission - that boredom has blossomed into something else. You want him to look at you, if only so you can remind him what he is, what he lost. You want him to stay in the same room as you long enough for you to yank his stupid shoelaces out of his shoes and hold them aloft, shove them between the tiles of his teeth and remind him exactly what transpired between the two of you the other day. But he doesn't -- and you can't -- and now the euphoria is ebbing like the foaming tide and all that's left is a cold, empty shoreline.
How - how, even after everything, does it still feel as though he's won?
It's late, night cresting on your second night on the third floor. Your day has mostly consisted of burning through attractions as quickly as you dare - you're in no mood to get to the final ten hours and realise you don't have enough Clear Chips to survive, thanks very much. Sara had grabbed you a half-hour ago to finish a particularly difficult memory-dance game, and it had taken two tries before you'd recalled the moves to the enemy's apparent platinum standard. The two of you meandered back to your rooms; as you walked, you shucked off your jacket, grimacing a little at the sweat building over your arms.
Sara is quiet, which neither surprises nor particularly bothers you. You don't know what you would be saying in her place, either. But it is a little disheartening, looking up her drawn, exhausted face, and comparing her to the bold, brash girl you'd admittedly been pretty impressed by upon waking up here. That illusion was well and truly shattered though; Sara wasn't a leader, nor should she have to be. She was a child, and you and the rest of the useless adults should've been protecting her.
Not throwing her under the bus. Not setting her best friend up to die. You grit your teeth.
"Hey..." Sara ventures as you walk. You turn to her expectantly; she's fiddling with the hem of her school uniform blazer, not meeting your eye, head ducked. "Did - um... did something happen? I mean, between you and - and Sou?"
You retain your poker face with only masterful ability. "What do you mean?"
The look she shoots at you is quick, but imploring. "Just - he seems a little on-edge around you now. I don't know, maybe he's always been like that. Maybe I'm just paying more attention now than - than before..."
You don't like the thin waver in her voice, nor where her train of thought is leading, so you gently take over the reins of the conversation. "You don't have to worry about it, Sara."
She lifts her head. Her face is clammy, and the circles beneath her eyes are bruise-blue, but her gaze is as sharp and poignant as ever. "So something did happen?"
You laugh awkwardly. "Aren't you observant?"
Her eyes shut briefly. "Please... don't patronise me. I'm just so worried. I feel like it's eating at me..."
Your stomach drops. "Ah, shit. Sara, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." You trail off. Treat you like a kid? She is a kid. But not a child, you amend; she has, at the very least, earned the right to be spoken to with dignity. "I didn't mean to condescend, I promise. It's just... not something I want to be aired out, you know?"
This seems to tire her further; her feet drag along the tiled floor. "I won't say anything, I suppose," she mutters. "But I think we should stop keeping secrets from each other in general. You know?"
You pause. "Yeah. I know. I promise, you don't have to worry about it. I can handle him. You believe me?"
She considers you a moment, and it's things like that which remind you why you like her so much. She doesn't just go for the easy option, the gentle white lie. She's blunt and honest, sometimes to a fault, and she really measures everything she says. It makes you feel like you matter to her, and there's a distant fondness that blooms in you for it.
"Yes," she says eventually, with as much conviction as you've heard her be able to muster up since the Main Game. "I believe you. Just be careful - around him, I mean."
Your smile is genuine. "Thanks, Sara. I will."
The two of you round the corner to the corridors pertaining to all of your bedrooms - and you freeze.
Sou and Kanna are the only ones lurking, huddled close together and talking in undertones. Maybe talking isn't quite right, at second blush -- Kanna has her arms crossed, expression stubbornly scrunched. Sou looks plain uncomfortable, slouched against the door of his bedroom.
As you and Sara have paused, as yet unnoticed, Kanna skirts beneath Sou's arm and slams her body over the threshold, stepping boldly into his room. He spins around, eyes wide, but Kanna disappears inside. Sara's face is crinkled in confusion when you turn to her and place a hand on her shoulder.
"Sara, you go to bed and get some rest, okay?" you implore. Her gaze flicks doubtfully from you, to the scene unfolding behind you, but you steel her with a look. "I'll handle it. Promise. Get some sleep, please."
She sucks her bottom lip, dithering, but exhaustion must win over eventually, because she gives a drooping nod and steps towards her door. "Please - be careful..."
You sent her a wan smile. "Yes, ma'am. I'm good."
With a final nod, and one long, calculating glance, Sara shuts the door quietly behind her. As soon as the quiet click rings out, you turn on your heel and march over.
"The hell is going on here?" you seethe as soon as you're close enough. Sou's back tenses visibly, and when he turns slowly around to meet your gaze he's a shade paler even than normal, which you frankly didn't think was possible. "Why is Kanna in your room?"
Sou sputters uselessly like a fish out of water. You peer around his doorframe to where Kanna stands, blinking like a deer in headlights, all bright eyes too big and surprised for her thin, heart-shaped face.
You turn back to face Sou, eyebrows raised in a silent demand for an explanation. The tips of his cheekbones have gone a violent shade of red.
"D-don't look at me like that!" he spits the moment he finds his voice.
"Like what?" you hiss. "There's a fourteen-year-old girl in your room, Sou, how else would you like me to look at you?"
Kanna chews her lip anxiously. "Um! It was Kanna's idea, so you shouldn't be angry at Sou..."
Your face scrunches. "What was your idea?"
"Don't—" Sou groans, but Kanna cuts him off.
"W-well, Kanna told Keiji and Sara that she would keep an eye on Sou," she explains nervously, "so she thought it would be a good idea to sleep in the same room at night, too."
You have to bite very hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from yelling. Sou shuts his eyes as though Kanna has signed his death warrant, which -- well, he's always been an observant man. You're about to throttle him.
"I - I told her no!" he blusters when you turn to him with icy rage. "Don't look at me like I'm some sort of - of—"
"Of what, Sou?" you hiss. "Use your big boy words. What, you can't say no to a teenage girl? She just wore you down, did she? Jesus Christ."
Sou's expression is practically murderous; he spins on his heel, turning his glare to Kanna. "Kanna. Out. Now."
She plants her feet stubbornly. "N-no! Kanna said she'd keep an eye on Sou, and that's what she's going to do!"
Steam might be rolling out of Sou's ears. "Damn it, Kanna-! You can't sleep in the same room as me! It's not - I mean - it's not appropriate, okay?"
Kanna tilts her head. "Kanna shared a bed with sister all the time. How is it different?"
"Because he's not your brother, Kanna," you say as gently as you can muster. "He's a total stranger, and he's dangerous, and he's a creep, and you shouldn't be putting yourself in vulnerable positions right now in general, okay?"
Sou whirls on you, eyes wide with disbelief, flushed an angry red. "D-don't profile me like that! Jeez..."
Kanna wrings her hands. "But... Kanna made a promise..."
Maybe it's the trembling of her lower lip, or maybe it's the fact that you've kind of been itching for an opportunity like this for the last couple of days, or maybe it's Sou's oddly endearing look of total spitting frustration -- or more likely, a combination of all three -- but the solution rises to your lips faster than you can think about it.
"It's okay, Kanna. I'll keep an eye on him."
Sou whips around, eyes round as coins, mouth agape. Kanna blinks, wrongfooted, and glances between the two of you with renewed clarity. Meanwhile, the two sides of your brain are screaming at each other, and whilst they commiserate, a third part is weakly attempting to maintain your calm expression.
"Y-you - what?!" Sou snaps, looking aghast at the very prospect. "What do you think you're—"
"Um," Kanna says faintly. "Is that really okay?"
You grin, catlike. "I'm not going to smother him in his sleep, if that's what you're worried about."
Kanna's mouth twists. "I know. 'Cause Kanna has already seen you here, so I'd know it was you straight away."
"Exactly," you agree mildly. "I'm too smart for that. C'mon, Kanna - you really can't stay in here, but if you insist on having somebody look after him for the night, I don't mind."
"Wh- h-hang on!" Sou protests, eyes bugging. "Do I get any say in this at all?!"
"No," you and Kanna answer simultaneously. The girl sighs deeply before acquiescing, shuffling glumly out of Sou's room and out into the corridor. She pauses, throws a nervous glance over at the two of you.
"Kanna thinks... both of you should be careful," she says measuredly. "Um. That's all. Good night." And with that, she shuffles to her own room, taking her time closing the door; her watchful green eyes peer out of the dark slat that grows thinner until the latch clicks.
There is a resounding silence in the corridor. Sou is squirming delightfully, not meeting your eye. You chew the inside of your lip, pulling up wet tissue-paper clumps of flesh and the suggestion of blood. Because the thing is - Sou is a creep. This is less of an opinion, you feel justified in assuring yourself, and more of an unfortunate fact. The way he oozes into a room with his head bowed and lips pressed together as though trying very hard to go undetected, the way his wide, spacey stares linger just a little too long on you and Keiji and Sara, the manner in which he mutters to himself and hides behind his scarf when embarrassed which should be endearing, but because it's him doing it you only find it despicable... all creepy. He slinks around the place like a large, ill-dressed stick insect, all wide eyes and pale thin limbs. The bastard.
So yeah, he is a creep. A weirdo, even. But even as much as you might loathe him, you cannot quite bring yourself to assume that there was anything seriously, uh, weird going on between him and Kanna. It's just odd. After the way they'd worked together in the first main game -- although, you amended, worked together was kind of a misnomer considering it had been Sou pulling all the strings, as per fucking usual -- it's beginning to make everyone a little sketched out. You notice it most particularly in Sara, to little surprise. Her dark eyes catch on the two of them when they sit in a corner, exchanging conversation in hushed voices. There's a tension in the sharp lines of her shoulders, a tinge of paranoia on her pretty face. You cannot even begin to blame her.
Finally, Sou glances at you. There's a whole lot of frustration brewing beneath the soft features of his face, and a dizzying touch of embarrassment. Casually, you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest; the sudden proximity hums, and Sou takes an automatic, awkward shuffle backwards. You relish the reaction, that spark of fight-or-flight.
"So? Are you gonna invite me in?" You accompany this with a smile that shows off the darkness in the corners of your mouth. Sou rolls his answer around in his mouth as though it has a bitter taste.
"Why should I?" He levels your stare with a hard one of his own. "I have no obligation to let you in, do I?"
You lift a shoulder, drop it. "I guess you don't, but I did make a promise to Kanna, and I'm a person of my word. Sou, I'm trying to do you a solid here - we both know I could make you let me in, but I'm feeling pretty generous tonight."
"You can't make me do anything," he sneers, venomous. "If you think I'm going to let you in my room where I sleep, you—"
"What?" you laugh. "Scared I'm going to do something? I already did something, in case you forgot. And unless you want everyone else to know about it too, I suggest you fucking move, because you're trying my temper."
Sou stills. He thinks you're just crazy and just shameless enough to actually spill your guts about what happened in the Relaxation Room, and that -- oh. His throat flexes as he swallows hard. That won't do. He really, really needs this image to work. He needs to be Sou, not Shin, for this to work, and whatever that was in the Relaxation Room was decidedly not Sou. Panic encroaches, beginning to dig its fingers into the skin of his neck and pinching.
The answer is bitter as bile when he finally spits it out. "Fine. Fine. Me casa es su casa..."
You bite back a grin as he ambles into his room, shoulders drooping, door swung open for you to follow suit. With one last, quick glance down the corridor, you skip over the threshold and shut the door behind you.
His room is, unsurprisingly, identical to yours, save for a few details. The bed is haphazardly unmade, to the point where it looks as though somebody had deliberately ransacked it, pillows strewn and comforter twisted, half-hanging off one side. Both chairs face the blacked-out window, their backs stark and plain. Laundry dots the floor like litter - shirts, trousers, socks. No scarves, though. Curiously, you meander to the wardrobe and pry open the doors. Just like in your own, there are exact replicas of the clothing you're wearing. In Sou's, there are grey undershirts, purple jackets, brown corduroy slacks, green beanies, and mismatched socks. But no red, patterned scarves. His must be the only one. Strange.
In the time you've been unabashedly snooping, Sou has ambled to the desk and opened up the laptop. A red icon blinks at him, signalling low battery, and with a mumbled curse he stoops beneath the desk, hunting for something.
He brings out a coiled charger, and you freeze.
"Wh-where did you get that?" your mouth blurts before your brain gives permission. Sou glances at you, brows knitted.
"Huh? Why do you care?"
"Just answer the question," you say sharply, eyes locked upon the charger. Expression sinking further into suspicion, Sou slowly turns around in his chair to watch you.
"I... found it," he answers. "In the Rubble Room. Why?"
"It - it's like..." Ah - should you be saying this? Can it possibly matter? "My first trial - they had me pick three items from a box. They said if I chose correctly, I got to live. That charger was one of the three things I picked."
Sou blinks, looking honestly shocked. "Th-that's... so you planted this here?"
You bristle. "No, idiot. After I picked, the room filled up with this weird gas, and the lights went out and... next thing I knew, I was waking up in the main corridor." You bite at your nail, thinking hard. "The other thing was the laptop. But when it first cropped up, I honestly thought it was a coincidence, or not even the same one. But now both of them... it has to be it. The items I chose are appearing in this death game."
Sou's teeth sink into his lip. "Which means exactly what we assumed. They are gifts from the kidnappers, after all..." A sudden shadow crosses his face; for a moment, he looks inexplicably younger, more vulnerable. His eyes shine out from his face like beacons. "They're toying with us. Giving us just enough for us to hope, then taking it away. Just like - it's just like..."
He's gripping his scarf so tightly that his knuckles are blanched. You stare at him, nonplussed. "Uh. Sou?"
He blinks once, hard, and the shadow scatters. It almost resembles a nervous tic. "Never mind. Forget I said anything." Scowling again, gaze downcast; he's upset himself with his own train of thought. Indifferent, you shrug.
"Whatever. I'm going to bed." Turning, you toss your jacket aside and tug off your jeans and socks, leaving you in your shirt and underwear. Sou very deliberately does not look at you, and you're actually left strangely thankful for it. You're already regretting shedding your clothes when he is still fully dressed; it reminds you too much of his scarf unspooled at your feet, his slacks halfway down his thighs. It feels like a tip in the scale. Scowling, you hurry beneath the bedcovers and stare up at the ceiling.
Sou taps impatiently at the laptop, but when it doesn't turn back on even with the charging port jammed, he curses under his breath and shuts the lid. "Stupid thing," he mutters. "Trust you to choose the world's most incompetent laptop..."
This smarts, though it shouldn't; it's a stupid, pithy comment, practically throwaway compared to some of the things he says, but you're not soon going to forget the crushing terror of waking up in that white room with someone else's blood on the walls, that disembodied voice, your hands shaking so badly as you picked that you almost dropped the charger.
"Fuck you," you snarl, and turn on your side away from him. "At least I got you something to play with. You could say thanks."
Sou snorts. God, you hate him. You wish you weren't here, but someone needs to keep an eye on him, and it sure as hell isn't going to be any of the kids.
There's a shuffling of clothing; hesitant and slow at first, but you don't rise to the bait and turn around. You have no desire to see his sickly-Victorian-child body, thanks very much. It only makes you angrier, when you're reminded of how weak and frail he is. You doubt he could punch his way out of a wet paper bag, and yet he's the reason three of your friends are dead.
And you did promise Kanna you wouldn't hurt him. So you don't look. And you don't imagine the slide of his pale limbs unearthing themselves from the folds of his clothing, the layers unwrapping like a round of pass-the-parcel. The sharp slope of his shoulders, the jut of his collarbone, the hollow of his clavicle. Whether or not his hipbones would be visible, whether you could walk your fingers up and down his ribcage. You don't think about it at all.
A shuffling of footsteps. Sou dithers at the bedside, exhales an irritated puff of air through locked teeth. "You can't sleep on the floor?"
"Ask me that again and I'll smother you in your sleep."
A tepid threat that probably has little effect, but Sou sighs defeatedly anyway. The bed dips slightly with his weight, though barely, and there's a shift as he lays himself down. You chance a glance at him; he's dressed identically to you, in his grey undershirt and boxers. Plain navy-blue, a little worn. Without the scarf, you can see the shiny metal of the collar. It's always reassuring to catch a glimpse of it encircling his throat, if only to assure yourself that it really is there.
He glimpses your gaze and narrows his eyes. "What are you looking at?"
"Dunno. Label fell off," you retort automatically, driving your eyes back up at his face. There's an unspoken implication of neither of you wanting to be the first to fall asleep. Something about vulnerability, et cetera - though you reason Sou couldn't really get much more vulnerable to you than your hand down his trousers, but whatever. He's a fickle man.
He scoffs. "Immature." But there's little venom to it; when you glance sideways at him, he looks preoccupied, eyes staring up blankly at the ceiling. His body is perched precariously on the very edge of the mattress, far too tense a position to be falling asleep in. Quicker than you can blink, he suddenly sits up and switches off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into perfect darkness.
"I have a question to ask you," he speaks as soon as you can no longer see him. His voice wavers a little, but there's an iron shot through the words, the kind of practised determination that only comes after psyching yourself up for hours. You imagine him crouched before a mirror, pep-talking himself, and smirk. "Answer honestly."
Annoyance flashes, brief as a flare. "Don't give me orders, Sou. I won't listen to them."
"Right. Fine. I don't care about that, I just..." He trails off. Though you can't see, you'd bet money he's wringing his hands right now, fiddling with his lithe, pale fingers. "I want to know... why you - you know - the other day. Why you did - yeah."
You're a little surprised, admittedly. You didn't think he'd have the backbone to ask you straight up; in fact, you were kind of looking forward to watching him squirm when you did. You let the question stew for a moment, wondering what the best response to it would be. The truth was, of course, that you'd done it out of spite. Out of anger, borne from an annoyingly present desire to see the man who thought he was oh so clever unravel at your fingertips. Still, you might've taken it a little far.
Besides, answering truthfully would just make you seem as though you spent all of your free time plotting on how to get Sou back, and you certainly didn't need to inflate his ego any more by implying that you voluntarily spent time thinking about him. Which you don't. Obviously.
Instead, you answer, "God, you're still thinking about that? I'd practically forgotten it happened. I didn't actually take your virginity, did I? You want me to hold your hand and take you out to dinner?"
Sou groans. "Oh, forget it. Forget all of it. Just shut up for once." A rattled pause. "You're hogging the blanket..."
You smile into the dark. "Is baby cold?"
"It's mine," he snarls, probably fed up, and yanks harshly at the duvet. "If you're so cold, put your clothes back on."
"Touchy," you laugh, and brush your leg deliberately up against his. It's cold, like you expected it to be, and thin as a matchstick. He flinches from the contact, and an irritated huff of air graces the silence. "What's wrong? Mad at me for sending the cute little schoolgirl away? You could be cuddled up to her right now, instead. Is that it?"
"N-no!" And props to him, he does seem genuinely disgusted by the thought. "God, you're - you're revolting. I told you, she - I didn't - I told her no! Like, ten times! It's not my fault she never listens..."
"You're pathetic, Sou." Your voice rings out suddenly, harsh as the whip of a belt across a quarry's back. The sheets rustle with his answering flinch. "She's a kid. What, you can be the reason three people are dead, but you can't say no to her? Grow a fucking spine already."
"Well, what about you?" Sou spits, and there, that tentativeness has fled with all the haste of a sure-footed doe. "Yes Miss Sara, no Miss Sara, can I lick your royal shoes for you, Miss Sara? The way you and those so-called adults fawn all over her... makes me sick. What are you hoping to get out of it? Heh, now that Joe's out of the way you probably have more of a chance, but it looks like you'll have to wait for that sleazy friendly policeman to be done with her first..."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" You sit straight up, incensed. "I'm not - you fucking - I'm trying to protect her, you bastard. That's all any of us are trying to do!"
"Are you sure about that?"
Rage makes you blind for a moment, seizing rigid control of your muscles; when you next become aware, you've flung yourself haphazardly over what you must assume is Sou's body, his hipbones digging into the meat of your inner thighs. Your hands grip his shoulders tightly, and it's his gasp of shock and pain that wakes you up properly.
The light is still off. If you squint, you can catch the faintest glint in his wide, round eyes. He barely moves, barely even breathes each shallow breath shuddering through you in quick succession. Is he scared? Or is this what he'd been waiting for?
It's like feeding a stray cat. One day it's a harmless plate of milk, the scrapings from your tuna sandwich. But before you know it, it's back for more, and it's hungrier than ever with the salt of yesterday's meal still cloying between its teeth. Its belly has tasted sustenance, and now it won't ever return to satisfaction with rotten fruit and bone marrow. It needs something more, something you've implicitly promised to provide. And the cat comes back again. It comes back again and again until it's eaten you all out of food, and maybe now you're the one begging for a bite.
You won't beg Sou. You won't ever beg him for a single thing.
You could kill him right now, you realise with a cold thrill. You've never killed anyone before, and you never thought you would, and even now there is a heavy seed of doubt - but you could. He's physically weak and already pinned under you, and there's nobody to hear him scream. You're faster and stronger than him. His neck and the delicate bird-bones inside of it is right there.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Sou breathes; the words vibrate through you, humming beneath your skin. They drip languid, sticky spoonfuls of syrup down the nape of your neck. "When it comes down to it, you're just as much a monster as I am, huh? What a hypocrite."
Your breath leaves you in a quick and violent rush, like blood down a drain. And this is it, the burning core of your hatred, the ugly truth; you hate how Sou sees you, and not in the way Sara or Reko or even Keiji does - Sou sees the truth, the base instincts you try so hard to hide, the fangs dripping venom you shield behind unassuming lips, the cruelty bordering your fingertips that only seems to come alive when you have him like this, helpless and shuddering with life.
You just want him to be quiet, suddenly. One hand leaves his shoulder and walks the pathway up to his face, mapping him out. It glides over his collarbone and the soft skin of his throat, which jerks as he swallows audibly, walks over the vertice of his jaw and chin until you find his mouth. Slightly parted. Dry, chapped; you've seen him gnaw at his lips absently, and pick at the skin around his fingernails, too, because they're bitten down to the sensitive pink quick. He's a man of nervous habit, of twitchiness, of a thousand anxious mannerisms that simply don't seem to fit with the personality he reflects.
Sou doesn't fit into himself. Maybe neither do you. You think you're both afraid, but of different things.
Your finger traces the seam of his mouth, scrape against the tiles of his teeth. Sou does not move or speak, only lies prone, so still he may have forgotten to breathe. It doesn't matter, though, because at least he isn't talking anymore.
And here, again, comes the realisation. You've done enough for this to be considered a victory. You could roll off him right now and go to sleep with the knowledge that you rendered him speechless with a couple of light touches warming you like a lantern in the cold darkness. It could be enough.
But it isn't.
You lean down and replace your finger with your own mouth, fitting it clumsily over his. Once you've gotten an anchor, the kiss ceases to be anything but gentle. Sou makes a small, panicked noise at the back of his throat, arms flailing at his sides, and you pull back.
"Tell me to stop," you tell him. "Or I won't."
"You..." He already sounds a little breathless, and it sends a heady rush of power to your head. He's so easy. "Why are you—"
"Because you're annoying," you answer crisply. "Because I don't like you. Does that make sense?"
There's a long pause. And then Sou laughs, softly and full of disbelief, and it rocks through you. Your frown deepens. "The fuck is so funny?"
"You - you're nothing like..." His mirth fades as abruptly as it came, and he clears his throat. "I like that you tell me how much you hate me."
You scoff. "What, are you into that or something?"
"N-not really," he mutters, suddenly abashed. "It's just - better than the alternative. You don't try and fool me into thinking you like me. That's what I like."
The way he says it is strange, as if he's talking about something very specific. It sends a grimy feeling down your body, actually, the image of somebody else unpeeling the clothes from Sou's body, the air filled with pleasantries and praise, all of it ringing false.
It surprises you, how much it disgusts you that there might have been someone like that in Sou's life once. Uncertainty bites at you. "...You want me to stop?"
Because - just like Sou is a creep, but not a creep, you're cruel but not cruel.
"Do... do whatever you want," Sou mutters. "Just don't lie to me."
Rich, coming from him. But you can indulge.
You kiss him again; his inexperience is evident in the clumsy movement of his mouth, the way his breath quickens at the flash of your tongue on his lower lip. Inside his mouth tastes the same as yours - dinner, fried tofu and spring onions and broth. It's surprisingly pleasant, coming from somebody as repulsive as him. After a few moments, the tension begins to seep out from the body beneath you.
You unlatched your hands from his shoulders, instead sending them roaming down the sides of his body. He's so thin - it actually never fails to take you off-guard. The fragility of him. The performance of it all. You could snap his bones easily, you think - which makes it all the more insane that when you're in the Main Game room, you're honestly sometimes afraid of him.
That's why you come back to this. Sou is sharper than you, smarter than you. This is all you have over him. That's the addiction.
You slip your hands beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, glaze them over the concave of his stomach, and feel his breath hitch. His head twitches back away from you, seeking air, and you chase him for a few seconds before granting it to him, so that he's gasping when you eventually pull back. You try to imagine the look on his face - flushed, probably, hair askew, mouth agape, wide-eyed. That expression he'd sported back in the Relaxation Room. He'd looked almost pretty, then.
He ekes out a short, amused laugh. "You go on about how much I enjoy this, but you seem happy enough. It's alright to admit it to yourself, y'know?"
You frown. "Be quiet," you order, and lean down again. You miss his mouth, so you abandon the idea and instead drag your lips down the side of his strained neck, feeling the ridges of bones jutting through papery skin, the pulsing veins spiderwebbing beneath, sensitive and tender; he shudders against you, and you figure his neck must be a soft spot, probably from how little it gets touched thanks to that hideous scarf of his. You kiss the path back up, afford him a bite or two, and he makes a delightful strangled noise, hands flying up automatically to cradle the back of your head.
You're not sure you like him touching you. On the one hand, it's kind of a power trip, but on the other, it's Sou. You know where those hands have been. What they've done.
You pull away entirely, yank his shirt up to his chin and stuff the hem between his teeth. He lets out a muffled yelp as your fingertips graze his tongue, impulsively clamping down on the fabric.
"Keep it there," you instruct, and begin shuffling down his body so that your legs encroach his knees; the friction over his dick sends his hips canting automatically, a stifled grunt into the shirt. You run your hands over the plane of his torso, the hollow of his clavicle, the barest swell of his chest, pausing to tweak a nipple, and he sort of simultaneously twists away and arches into it, making a noise that's more shocked than anything.
He runs so cold, and he's constantly shuddering. If he were anybody else, you'd worry, tell him to eat more, wear more layers, but this is Sou, so you don't care. If anything, it makes it easier for you to do whatever you want. You bend down again and run the flat of your tongue experimentally over his left nipple, and he moans into his shirt, hips jerking up to press against you. You force him down with a hand on his lower abdomen.
"You're so impatient," you snarl. "Baby can't wait five minutes? Used to getting everything handed to him?"
Sou's reply is muffled into the shirt, but it sounds venomous.
You kiss a trail down his stomach until you reach the line of his boxers, then mouth over the bulge there. The contact sends him rigid, breath shuddering in his lungs. When you touch him through the fabric, fingers seeking to wrap around him, he makes a noise that sounds like a choked cry.
"What's the magic word?" you ask, still so close that your hot breath envelopes the fabric in front of you, and he twitches in response.
"Nngh... really? Again?" he huffs, and you're both surprised and pleased to realise that he's still got the shirt stuffed in his mouth; his words come out stifled and thick. You'd fully expected him to drop it as soon as you moved away. "You're such a freak..."
You move your head away. "Strange way of telling me to stop, but okay."
"N-no, I- wait- ugh, dammit." He slams his head back against the pillows in disgust. "Just..."
You wait, patient. Wait for the cat to come back, hungrier than ever.
"Please," Sou mutters defeatedly, the word chastised into the dark room and then disappearing. Oh, but you'll remember it, something to savour, something to hold. You put a bowl of food out for the cat and hope it won't bite.
You give him a crooked smile that he cannot see. "Good boy," you tell him, the term deliberate as a cattle prod; as as expected, his body locks in a violent shudder, his answering whimper so loud the shirt does little to muffle it. The reaction sends liquid heat straight to your abdomen, and you have to fight off a surge of goosebumps of your own.
You unpeel his boxers and shuck them down to his ankles carelessly, run your hands up his shaking thighs to where they part for you. When your hand wraps carefully around him, there's a breathless, "fuck - oh, shit," from above you, rushed into the blue-dark of the bedroom, and when your hand begins to move, he keens.
You kind of wish the light was on; the high, breathless little noises you're pulling from him are nice, but you want a face to go with them. Something utterly embarrassing. Something real, vulnerable, something that says he needs you at least once. The face of a starving cat with an empty belly, peering up at you with big, hopeful eyes for a scrap of food, a lick of kindness. One you will certainly provide - you're just so nice like that - but don't you ever forget your place, you skinny little feline; don't forget it was you that came begging to me.
Finally, you untuck the ace from your sleeve, run your tongue over your lips, and lean down to take Sou into your mouth.
The answering wail is so loud that you instinctively reach up to slam a hand over his mouth; the rest of the wavering whine vibrates into the meat of your palm, and you feel how his mouth gapes, the tension as his back arches, pushes his dick in so far that you gag immediately.
He mumbles something - maybe an apology, but seeing as it's him, probably not - as soon as he catches his breath. You answer by scraping the blunt edges of your teeth over the sensitive flesh resting heavy on your tongue, and Sou hisses. It's the anticipation of pain that gets to him, the suggestion of it rather than the physical sensation. Like pressing on a bruise till it hurts, feeling the flesh smoosh beneath your finger like overripe fruit.
You get to work, a little clumsy, making sure that your tongue flattens over your bottom row of teeth. Sou writhes, occasionally slipping and bucking into the back of your throat, and each time you pinch at the skin of his hips until he whimpers. He's going to have a blue-black trial there tomorrow, not that you care. In fact, it excites you a little.
It draws to an end quickly, just like last time. Sou's breaths quicken, and his whimpers become choked-off moans and sobs, and from the sudden wet quality of his breathing you suspect he might be tearing up again, and his hand flies forward to grab at your hair. He doesn't push, surprisingly, just knots it up between his fingers like he's clinging to a lifeline.
His hips stutter, and you pull off.
He cries out, half irritated and half devastated. "Wh-what - why did - why did you—"
You have to swallow twice before you can answer. "I think last time, I said I'd make you thank me."
A laugh that borders on the hysterical. "You - you have to be joking..."
"Sou. Baby." You pat his thigh condescendingly. "What on earth makes you think I would joke about this?"
"For the love of..." Sou fidgets - or squirms, might be the better term, for a good half-minute before, "...okay."
You perk up. "Okay, what?"
"O-okay! I'll - I'll thank you." You'd bet your entire life savings that he's a violent shade of crimson right now. "You're so sick in the head..."
You imagine that your teeth glint when you smile; baring your fangs. "Ah, Sou... what does that make you, then?"
And before he can conjure up a clever answer to that, you sink your mouth back down over him, and his words get lost in the garbled, strangled string of nonsense that tumbles from his mouth. You catch, "oh," and "fuck, fuckfuckfuck," before it devolves into a desperate, frantic stuttering of breath and moans and whimpers. You place your hands on his trembling thighs for leverage and ease yourself down, slowly does it, until he inches past your soft palate.
When your throat flexes around him, hot and sure, Sou sobs out, "th-thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou—!" and you barely have time to pull away before he's filling your mouth. You cough half of it up, feeling your nose smart and throat ache and eyes sting; tears roll absently down your cheeks, but you reach up and wipe them away. Sou is still shuddering; you suspect stuff like this must take a lot out of him.
Wiping your mouth, you go to get up - but, surprising you so much that it stops you cold - Sou flings a hand out and clamps down on your wrist. "Wait," he chokes, "don't - where are you—"
Stunned, you lean over and switch the light on. The room floods with bright relief, soaking the contents of your sin in harsh, sour yellow.
Sou looks out of it. His eyes are wide and glazed over, and for a disconcerting moment, you're sure as there is blood in your veins that you are not who Sou is seeing in front of him, that he's seeing somebody else, remembering somebody else. The way he looks at you is not the way you've ever seen him look at anybody - like if you leave he'll curl into himself and die, but that he wants you far away from him, wants your hands nowhere near him.
It's frightening, actually. You click your fingers in front of his face. "Sou? You with me?"
He blinks, and the moment of illucidity flees. He gulps in a breath, two, steadying himself, and then he stops looking so scared, which is kind of a relief. Instead, his expression floods with embarrassment and frustration, a much milder cocktail that you can take some joy in. He reaches up and swipes angrily at his wet cheeks, biting hard at his lower lip. The hem of his shirt is soaked in spit.
Taking your cue, you roll off of him and flop down at his side. Sou casts a glance at you, shuttered and a little suspicious.
You cock a brow. "What?"
Immediately, his gaze retreats. "Nothing. It's - I wasn't expecting you to..."
"Stay? I promised I'd keep an eye on you, didn't I?" You roll onto your side, stretching, and hope he can't tell how fast your heart is racing. "I told you, I'm a person of my word."
"O-okay. That... okay." He's still considerably out of breath, but the violent shudders have calmed somewhat. "Jeez, you're such a pest. No getting rid of you, is there?"
"Nah," you answer, eyelids drooping. "Not 'till you grow up a little. Get the light, would you?"
There's a swollen pause, and then the room is plunged once again into darkness. Sou shuffles until his back is facing you, and as you begin to drift off to sleep, it occurs to you that you should stop feeding the cat.
They always come back for more. You're running out of food.
And the cat always comes back.
~
Sou is gone when you peel your eyes open the next morning.
You curse yourself groggily for not waking, noting with some relief that the laptop is where he'd left it last night. You stumble out of bed and dress yourself quickly, intent on finding the bastard as quickly as possible, and hurry into the corridor.
Keiji and Sara are making their way down the hallway; Sara looks slightly less exhausted than yesterday, which is nice. Keiji looks as dead as ever, bless him, but both of their eyes widen a little when they fall upon you exiting Sou's room. Your cheeks flood with angry embarrassment. Fuck.
"Um..." Sara begins cautiously as she approaches, dark eyes flicking from your slightly dishevelled state to the nameplate on the door. Miss Sara is always tactful, but also always honest, you lament ruefully. "What's...?"
"This isn't--" you manage, before you cough. Your throat is scratched raw and achey, and you desperately need a pull of water. When you look back up, Keiji's eyebrows have raised, and the faintest embarrassed flush is filming Sara's sharp cheekbones. "Um. This isn't what it looks like."
Keiji blinks slowly. "Then, uh... why were you coming out of Sou's room?"
"It's - okay." You're fumbling your words in mortification, and Sara's embarrassment is beginning to morph into carefully controlled disgust. Of course, you berate yourself furiously, she thinks you just slept with the guy who set her best friend up to die! You fucking moron! Fix this now! "It's not like that, okay? You two - I guess you asked Kanna to keep an eye on Sou, so she got it into her head that it would be a good idea to stay in the same room as him overnight."
Sara's jaw drops; Keiji's expression crinkles ever so slightly. "What?"
You nod quickly. "That's what they were arguing about last night, remember, Sara? So I said, obviously, that's not a good idea, but Kanna was insisting, so I just... said I'd do it instead. That's all."
Keiji nods, absorbing this. "That's all, huh?"
His hands in your hair. The soft, breathless noises. Thankyouthankyouthankyou—
"That's all," you affirm surely. "Jesus. Give me some credit."
Sara looks relieved, and if you meet her eye now the guilt curdling in your stomach might grow fangs and start gnawing at you.
"Alrighty then," Keiji shrugs. "Look, you're no kid - and I think you did the right thing, with Kanna and all. But don't let your guard down around him, okay?"
"Ah, Keiji," Sara smiles wanly. "I think Sou is the one who'll have to keep his guard up around them."
You manage a halfhearted laugh, trying not to wince at how right she really is. "Um - well, I'm gonna head to breakfast. Are you guys..."
"Doing an attraction," Keiji jerks his head noncomittally in another general direction. "I guess we'll see you later."
You nod, already scrambling around the two. "Later."
Nao, Reko, Alice, and Safalin are already in the dining hall when you arrive. Alice keeps his distance from the girls, occasionally shooting wounded looks at Reko's back. He blinks and nods at you in greeting when you stumble through the door.
"Ah... morning, Alice," you offer. "Have you seen Sou or Kanna at all today?"
He nods impassively. "Hmph... they passed through a little while ago, into the corridor of rubble. What business do you have with them?"
You don't answer for a moment, taking the bowl of fried rice that Safalin meekly presses into your hands and digging the spoon in.
"Just," you mumble as you begin walking towards the door, "...gotta feed the cat."