The library is almost empty when Sanemi walks in. This one's quieter than the rest on campus, which is why it's his favorite, but today more so than usual.
Despite this, Masachika has booked out a private room for them, knowing full well how much Sanemi hates working out in the open. Sometimes Sanemi appreciates him.
On his way up the stairs, Sanemi passes exactly one person, who takes one look at his face and moves as far off to the side as she can without melding into the wall. Arriving on the second floor, he finds the third room to his right and, sighing, turns the handle to let himself in.
Masachika perks up at the sound of the door. "Oh, hey! That was fast."
Sanemi grunts, flinging his stuff down to the floor and himself into the seat next to Masachika. "Sorry I'm late."
"Don't worry about it," Masachika says, waving it off. He's already got his lecture notes spread out over the table, laptop open, empty PowerPoint slides ready to go. Sanemi leans over to grab his own notes out of his bag, tugging them between the zipper a little too hard.
"Also, I stopped by the café on the way here and got us something to drink. I hope I got your order right." Masachika reaches across the table for the drinks in question, picking one up and offering it to Sanemi.
"Sorry if it's cold," he adds.
Sanemi takes a sip, tentative. It's lukewarm, but coffee's coffee and at the current stage of his life Sanemi could care less about the temperature so long as it gets into his system.
Masachika's still looking at him expectantly, though, so Sanemi pulls the cup away and mutters, "It's good. Thanks."
"Awesome. Okay, so I was thinking we could divide the slides up between us; I can do materials and components, if you want to work on circuits..."
It's nothing overly complex, just a preliminary design of some hydraulics machinery they discussed in class. Fortunately, they were allowed to choose their own partners, which, considering his present frame of mind, bodes well for Sanemi and everyone else in that course. There are some people Sanemi would rather chop off his own arm than work with.
Anyway, Sanemi's already done a good deal of brainstorming on his own, so this shouldn't take long. During the first hour, they operate with near mechanical cooperation, Masachika occasionally asking for clarification on some slides, Sanemi occasionally lifting his rough sketches up for feedback. About half an hour in, he moves around to the other side of the table to use the dry erase board, jotting messy notes and calculations all over it in an attempt to organize his thoughts.
For how different they are in principle, Sanemi and Masachika are almost frighteningly productive together. Maybe it's because they've been friends since their middle school years, when Sanemi's stupid, reckless self kicked a soccer ball straight into Masachika's face. It was an accident, of course, but dealt enough damage to leave his nose dripping red and the gym teacher yelling for them to go to the nurse. Sanemi, whose tiny body was ill-suited for the anger constantly boiling inside him, became stumped when Masachika not only forgave him immediately, but grinned at him from around the tissue stuffed up his nose and asked to be his friend. Sanemi said no, then found himself sitting with Masachika during lunch and walking home with him from school almost every day. Rage turned to annoyance turned to grudging acceptance, and eventually Sanemi warmed to Masachika's optimism and closed-eye smiles. He tolerated Sanemi's tantrums, his moods, his temper—the things no one else would tolerate—and Sanemi did his best to return the favor whenever the rain came down and that optimism cracked just the tiniest bit. And over the years, he grew to become the one person outside Genya who understands Sanemi the most.
Which is why Sanemi isn't all too surprised when, just as he depletes the last of his cold coffee, Masachika sits back in his chair and clears his throat.
"...Sanemi."
Without looking up, he says, "Hmm."
"Is everything okay?"
Sanemi saves his work, then moves onto the next slide. "Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"
Sighing, Masachika flips a page in his binder and picks up his pen again. He scribbles in the margins and taps the tip of the pen against his chin, frowning. To an outsider, he looks deep in thought. To Sanemi, he just looks like he's spacing out.
Scrolling through the elements he needs to build the online model, Sanemi tries to ignore him.
A few minutes later, Masachika says, "Well... You've been acting weird lately. Like, a lot of the time you've obviously got your mind on something else, but I feel bad about pointing it out 'cause it happens so often. And you smile a lot at your phone now. Also, I don't think I've seen you in this bad of a mood since, like... October."
Bullseye. Masachika rattles off the observations like it's nothing, every one of them deadly accurate, waving that stupid pen around like a magic wand that'll pull the answers off Sanemi's tongue.
Sanemi just shoots him a stormy look from over his screen. "Okay. I'm trying to work."
"And I'm trying to be a good friend," Masachika says, "and work at the same time. Besides, we've been at it for, like, an hour. We can take a small break."
"Later."
"Did you get a girlfriend?"
Sanemi's finger slips on the touchpad, throwing his chosen element out of frame. He re-selects and drags it back in. "What the fuck? No."
"Really?" The guy looks dejected, like a kid after finding out Santa isn't real. Like he'd figured it all out, was so sure of himself, and now has to go back to the drawing board.
Sanemi stiffens, breath locking uncomfortably in his chest. Is he really going to do this?
Downcast, Masachika pokes at the rings in his notebook.
Yeah, he is. Pushing the lid of his laptop halfway down, Sanemi abandons his work, at least for the time being.
"First of all," he begins, "I don't have a girlfriend."
Masachika's face droops.
"Second of all," he continues, "it's a guy."
And lights up. "So you have a boyfriend."
Sanemi makes a frustrated noise, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fuck, he can't do this. "No."
Masachika cocks his head to the side, confusion drawing his brows together. "Um. I'm stumped." Sanemi prepares to explain, only for Masachika to thrust an open palm out to stall him. "Wait, gimme a sec. I'll figure it out."
"It's not a fucking puzzle," Sanemi grumbles, but obliges. Briefly, he resumes his work, barely making any progress before Masachika's rapping his knuckles against the table to get his attention again.
"I got it! You're interested in a guy. You want to date him, but something went wrong. Am I right or am I right?"
Sanemi's silence is answer enough.
Grinning, Masachika folds his arms across his chest. Sanemi wants to punch the smug look off his face. "Checkmate."
"Fuck off."
"Why didn't you tell me, Sanemi? You've gotta stop doing that—keeping everything to yourself."
"Didn't think it was that important," Sanemi says under his breath, wiping at a smudge of Expo marker on his right thumb.
"What do you mean? Of course it's important. When was the last time you liked someone for real?"
"Not important," Sanemi insists.
"Is he," Masachika lowers his voice to a whisper even though they're in a private fucking room, "from 'work'?"
Oh, yeah. He's also the only person within Sanemi's (very narrow) circle who knows he does porn.
Trying to keep it a secret from someone as insightful as Masachika was absolute hell, not to mention he saw through Sanemi quickly enough. Besides, there are times when it's nice to have someone to rant to whenever things go wrong. Porn pays well, but the industry's still got more faults than rights right now, and Sanemi's way too riled all the time to leave it bottled up.
Dragging a hand down his face, Sanemi says, "Oh my god. Yeah."
Masachika blinks several times in quick succession, eyes wide with fascination. He might be the only one in on Sanemi's secret, but that doesn't mean he knows much about it. He never pries, either, which was a huge part of the reason Sanemi decided to let go of his stubbornness and embarrassment to confess. All Masachika knows about working in porn is whatever Sanemi dumps on him in his sporadic fits, but it's clear that he harbors an intense curiosity around the whole business. Fitting, given the fact that Masachika tends to be curious about no less than every fucking thing known to mankind.
"I met him about two months ago," Sanemi says, slowly. Masachika leans forward in his seat, enraptured, and Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. "We did, uh, two scenes together. Which went well. We have good chemistry, that's what people keep saying. But he's really big on rules and being professional and shit, so he has a hard time letting himself act natural in the moment. Does that make sense?"
Masachika nods. Sanemi can't believe he's telling him this. He can't believe he's going to keep going.
"Okay. Well, we've been talking. Or—texting. A lot. But something happened to him in the past with a guy he caught feelings for, so he doesn't let himself get too close to other people. The people he has to film with, anyway, but I think it's just people in general."
"I see. So what happened?"
Here, Sanemi pauses, feeling his cheeks warm at the memory of that phone call. And to think he came here believing this would take his mind off Giyuu.
Strangely, though, it feels therapeutic. Just speaking the words aloud is dusting away some of the heaviness hanging over his head. Sanemi would never admit he needs help or advice of any kind, but right now he's stuck between a rock and a hard place.
"I might've, um... moved too fast on him. Wasn't thinking," he mumbles. "God, it's so stupid. He turned me down."
"But you had a reason, right? Or you wouldn't have made a move, knowing..." Masachika trails off, letting Sanemi pick up his train of thought.
"Right, yeah—exactly. Whenever we texted he always seemed really into it. Also, this one time, he opened up to me on his own and it turned out fine. Better than fine, actually. And this whole other thing happened that we are not talking about, but he was giving me a fuckton of mixed signals. So I thought..." His computer screen dims, on idle mode, and he waggles the cursor to wake it up again. "I don't know. I could've just misread the entire situation, or something."
Sanemi doesn't think he did, not really. Giyuu doesn't seem like the type to fake interest where there is none. The opposite, in fact. If he'd been turned off by Sanemi's texting, he would've said so right off the bat. And bluntly, too, leaving no room for any uncertainty.
But the more Sanemi thinks about it, the more he starts to doubt himself.
To be honest, Sanemi still isn't sure what he wants with Giyuu. Does he want to fuck him? One hundred percent. Does he enjoy talking to him? Sure. Does he want to see him again? Maybe a little.
But does he like him?
"I know what you're thinking," Masachika interrupts. "Yes, you're into him. No, you didn't misread anything. I mean, he gave you his number and texted you back consistently. Along with everything else you mentioned, I doubt he's dense enough to do all that without knowing the implications. I'm almost a hundred percent sure he also likes you. But he won't tell you that, at least not under normal circumstances."
"How would you know that."
"Umm..." Masachika sways back in his chair and aims his eyes up to the ceiling, pensive. "Experience, intuition, knowing you, et cetera. I could be wrong, though. Don't hold me accountable if I am."
"It doesn't change the fact that I freaked him out."
"True," Masachika muses. "Maybe he just needs some time. Let him think it over and wait for him to reach out first. I'd give it a few days."
Sanemi laughs, self-loathing. "Like he'd reach out."
"Sanemi, the guy obviously cares about whatever you two have. He will speak up."
Stewing in his own thoughts, Masachika's input, and that disaster of a phone call, Sanemi feels a migraine start to sink in.
He doesn't have time to make it worse, though, because Masachika's already snapping his laptop back open and shuffling through more of his papers.
"Okay, I'm satisfied," he declares. "Let's get back to work."
Just as Masachika predicted, Giyuu texts him exactly two days after the Incident.
Sanemi gets the notification in the middle of an evening class. He restrains himself from reading it right then and there, flips his phone upside-down, and still fails to focus.
As he exits the lecture hall, Sanemi unlocks his phone and pulls up the message.
Giyuu [7:19 pm]: Hi Sanemi. I wanted to apologize for what happened the other day over the phone. I didn't mean to leave things the way I did. I also wanted you to know that I value your acquaintance very much. Again, I'm sorry. I hope this doesn't ruin things between us.
Reading it over a second time, Sanemi feels a strange sense of relief arise next to his confusion. Despite Masachika's reassurance, there remained a part of him that believed Giyuu would never contact him again. If his paranoia ended up correct, Sanemi couldn't think of a more humiliating way to sever a connection: asking to meet up right after maybe-phone-sex and not only getting shut down, but also cut off completely.
But that didn't happen. This man, who Sanemi remembers initiating their conversations maybe twice back when they texted almost every day, really did reach out first. Giyuu's being so formal it's almost laughable, but it's so... him. Sanemi catches himself smiling when he puts his phone away, mind loud as a tempest in the silence of the street.
If Giyuu feels even a fraction of the attraction Sanemi feels for him, he guesses he can understand getting too caught up in the moment and panicking once it ends. Sanemi can't imagine handling the balance between innate desires and personal principles that directly contradict those same desires. He also knows how bad Giyuu is at these sorts of things, how out of touch he is with his emotions, so Sanemi can respect his effort to patch up the situation.
On the way back to his place, Sanemi drafts up an appropriate response in his head and replies once he's settled onto his couch. In simple terms, he tells Giyuu that he understands, not to worry about it, and that he's also sorry for bringing it up in the first place. Giyuu responds promptly, thanking him for understanding and following it up with an inquiry about his day.
They don't exactly fall back into their normal routine, but it's a close thing. Sanemi follows Masachika's advice of giving Giyuu some space, keeping his replies neutral but friendly enough to sustain dialogue. Where he's backed off, Giyuu steps in to fill the distance, incorporating his own... unique ways of stirring conversation, to put it nicely. Sometimes they're hopeless, but Sanemi never leaves him hanging. It gives him a laugh either way, which helps when he's stuck on a five-part physics problem and needs something to wind down the tension in his shoulders.
Sanemi can be a little abrasive over text, or so Masachika tells him, especially now that he's completely given up on the flirting. It doesn't seem to bother Giyuu, who's genuinely invested in keeping in contact. Sanemi feels comfortable enough to call him a friend.
And that's all they may ever be. Friends. Friends that sometimes fuck as a part of their job. Friends that might want to be more than friends.
Sanemi supposes it's better than nothing.
(Deep down, he knows it isn't.)
Giyuu [9:40 pm]: Sanemi?
You [10:09 pm]: what's up
Giyuu [10:20 pm]: Hashira is having a party next Friday at a bar downtown. I thought you might want to come.
You [10:24 pm]: is it ok if i go?
Giyuu [10:27 pm]: Of course. We're celebrating a record-breaking season, which you contributed to. Personally, I don't want to go, but Shinobu is forcing me to.
You [10:30 pm]: oh ok
You [10:32 pm]: so do u know who else is gonna be there?
Giyuu [10:35 pm]: Likely most of the company. But we'll stick with Uzui's group, if you aren't comfortable with mingling with everyone else.
You [10:36 pm]: ok
You [10:37 pm]: i'll think about it
Giyuu [10:41 pm]: There will be free drinks
You [10:42 pm]: i'll be there
You [10:43 pm]: send me the address
Giyuu [10:45 pm]: Will do
That Friday, Sanemi walks in late. He had the foresight to take the subway down to the city, certain that he'll come out of this evening too drunk to drive, and from the station it's only a short walk to his destination. Unfortunately, he was late leaving campus, got off at the wrong stop, and had to take a new route. All this delayed him a good hour and a half, but at least he found the damn place.
The place itself is sleek, modern, decked out in black tile and marble counters. The kind of place Sanemi would never step a foot into on a normal day.
According to Giyuu, the company has reserved the entire upper floor for tonight. It's an open bar, too, which Sanemi has already planned to take full advantage of.
As broke as he is, Sanemi rarely gets the chance to go out and drink, relying on shoddy parties in the basements of people he only recognizes by name. The alcohol's always shit, the music even shittier, but it does the job when Sanemi's only goal is let loose.
He's also gone clubbing with various production teams before. Porn aside, they're always a fun crowd, one that Sanemi doesn't mind mixing with every once in a while. (Unlike Giyuu, Sanemi couldn't give less of a crap about combining business with pleasure.)
At his entrance, the bartender spares him a glance and a soft welcome, but nothing more. The rest of the patrons don't even look his way.
Sanemi heads straight for the staircase tucked in the back of the establishment, the railing cool under his fingertips. By the second step, he can hear the rumbling noise of dozens of voices mixing together, underlaid by a bass that thumps much louder than the one on the first floor. By the fifth, it's so loud that Sanemi's forced to wonder how the fuck he couldn't hear anything from downstairs. There has to be some sort of soundproofing mechanism in place.
The last step brings Sanemi to a polished wooden floor, spread under the bustling life of a party already in full swing. There's a wide bar in the middle staffed with two bartenders, lit up in a deep purple, an impressive assortment of bottles stacked on shelves high enough to reach the ceiling. Every table he can see is occupied, surrounded by members of Hashira and topped with sparkling glassware. On the floor, people walk to and from the bar, stopping every now and then to chat with other groups and pass drinks around. It isn't too dark that Sanemi has to strain his eyes, but still dim enough to maintain the right atmosphere. However, it is packed with enough people that Sanemi has to crane his neck to scan the crowd in his search for familiar faces.
He finds one only a few steps away, standing by the closest table and laughing hard enough to double over. When she opens her eyes, still beaming, Mitsuri spots him immediately. Jumping up, she quickly excuses herself and bounces on over.
"Sanemi, hi!" She's dressed up nice, a pretty floral dress that just brushes her knees, long hair swinging down her back in one neat braid. "Giyuu told us you were coming, but I was starting to think you changed your mind!"
"Yeah, sorry. Got a little lost, but I'm here now."
Mitsuri giggles, then hooks a thumb over her shoulder to point at the right side of the room. "Come on, I'll take you to our table!"
Following Mitsuri and sidestepping those carrying trays of shiny champagne flutes, Sanemi can feel multiple pairs of eyes on him. Though they're more curious than intrusive, they still raise the hairs at the back of his neck. Sanemi walks a little faster, hands shoved into his pockets, head ducked down to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Looks like he's recognized by more people than he recognizes.
It doesn't disturb him, though. After all, if he couldn't stand the idea of complete strangers knowing how he looks and sounds during sex, Sanemi would've never entered this industry.
Uzui is the first to take heed of their approach. Without an iota of restraint, he shouts, "There he is—hey, Shina! Finally decided to show, eh?"
Right after, the table erupts in overenthusiastic whoops and clapping. It seems everyone's already a little buzzed.
Sanemi lifts a hand out of his pocket to offer a wave, glancing over the faces in front of him. There's Uzui, of course, and beside him is that man from before with the flaming hair—Rengoku—and next to him is Shinobu, then—
"Here, have a seat!" Mitsuri urges, gesturing to an empty chair. On the other side of which sits Giyuu, frozen, staring up at him with a twinkling glass halfway to his lips.
Then he relaxes, nodding at the chair, and Sanemi pulls it out far enough to seat himself.
"I feel like everyone's looking at me," is the first thing Sanemi says, because they are. Even now, he can feel the lingering pass of eyes over the back of his head.
"Well, of course! You're a bit of a legend right now, along with Giyuu here," Uzui explains, tipping his head towards Giyuu with a crooked grin. "We've never had a newbie make such an impact. You should be proud."
"Yeah, yeah," Sanemi says, laughing a little and clearing out a space before him.
"Hey." Giyuu's voice ripples to life beside him, gentle and soft as a puddle. The same as Sanemi last heard it, shaky through his phone.
Sanemi chances a look at him. "Hey."
"Think of this as a celebration for your flamboyant work," Uzui continues. "You set records with your very first film with us, then went and broke those, too."
"I particularly enjoyed your most recent one!" Rengoku says, boisterous, not at all fazed. He burns even brighter up close, seeming to radiate a light of his own in their darkened corner.
"We were just talking about it, actually," Shinobu adds.
"Oh, great." By the looks of it, everyone's already got at least one drink coursing through their veins, and if Sanemi's going to join this conversation he needs at least two.
With perfect timing, Mitsuri taps him on the elbow and leans over the top of his chair so he can hear her over the noise.
"Sanemi, let me grab you a drink! What would you like?"
"I can—" Sanemi starts to stand, but Mitsuri pushes him back down with a fuss.
"No, no! You stay put. You're our guest of honor today, after all! Now pick your poison; I'll bring it to you."
Sanemi tells her, keeping it simple enough to remember, and with a light pat on his shoulder she departs.
Turning back to the table, Sanemi finds Uzui and Rengoku locked in some heated exchange, Shinobu chiming in every now and then with the misplaced serenity of her voice. Giyuu is silent as usual, nursing his drink slowly, gaze averted.
Sanemi takes the chance to size him up. In this lighting, Sanemi can't determine the color of his clothes, but they're dark enough to blend into the black tablecloth and form-fitting enough to flatter his figure. Not as formal as some of the people Sanemi passed on his way over, but clean enough that it's clear he put some effort into dressing up.
What Sanemi can determine is how good he looks. Skin pale and smooth as glass, lips a little wet where he licks them after a sip of his drink. He's got his hair up the way it was during their last shoot, with a few shorter strands tucked behind his ear. It reveals the slender column of his throat, a sliver of collarbone.
Fuck, he looks better than Sanemi remembers, which should've been impossible. After three weeks apart, Sanemi thought maybe he'd be used to it—Giyuu's beauty. It's a bit like going into withdrawal, then falling back into the cycle just when you started to forget how delicious the rush was.
Sanemi might be whipped, and it might be too late to change that. Trust him to chase the forbidden fruit.
Masachika's words echo in his head. Take it slow. Give him time. Space. Wait for his cue.
Giyuu sets his glass down. It clinks against the surface of the table, the light glinting off the rim. The sound stops Sanemi from following the line of Giyuu's neck any further down, ripping his eyes away like he was just caught doing something forbidden. And maybe he was.
"I'm glad you could make it," Giyuu says, then finally looks at Sanemi.
"Yeah, well." Sanemi clears his throat. "Free drinks. Don't get those very often."
"Hey, guest of honor!" Rengoku calls out, spearing Sanemi with those striking eyes. "Shinazugawa, was it? How'd you come up with ideas for that scene? Uzui just told me it was shot unscripted, but I thought for sure he was kidding."
"I didn't really think about it," Sanemi answers. Next to him, Giyuu sits so still Sanemi wonders if he should remind him to breathe. "Just did what felt natural."
"Incredible!"
"This guy's got a talent for that," Uzui jumps in, leveling a finger at Sanemi. "Fuckin' insane. A lot of people crack under that kind of pressure. Don't know how he does it, but I'm sure as hell not complaining."
Somewhere in the middle of the discussion, Mitsuri returns with two drinks that fizz when she places them on the table, one in front of Sanemi and one in front of the seat on his other side, which turns out to be her own.
"Enjoy!" Mitsuri says, bright, smoothing her dress over her lap.
Sanemi brings his drink up to his mouth immediately, taking a sizable gulp and relishing the way it scorches down his throat. "Thanks."
Mitsuri's brought an addition to their party, who comes into view once she lowers herself down into the chair. It turns out to be Iguro, juggling two trays in his arms and sliding them to the center where the cups they carry disappear within seconds. Then he settles into the seat on Mitsuri's other side and proclaims, none too gently, that someone else will have to fetch the next round.
"You all drink like fucking animals," he grumbles, spiteful.
"Untrue!" Uzui says. "We just have normal-sized bodies. You're so small that one sip could knock you out."
Iguro's eyes narrow into slits. "Fuck you."
Rengoku laughs heartily, returning his empty glass to one of the trays and snagging another. "Normal? For us, maybe, but you're well above average build, Uzui-san. I don't think anyone here could beat you in a drinking game."
Uzui shrugs. "I can't argue with that."
"What were we talking about?" Mitsuri interjects, scooting forward to fold her arms across the tablecloth.
Shinobu smiles. "Why don't you tell her, Tomioka-san?" she suggests, prodding Giyuu with her elbow.
Grip tensing over his cup, Giyuu mutters something under his breath.
"What was that?"
This time, his jaw tenses. Eventually, Giyuu raises his voice—"My film. With... Sanemi."
"Good boy," Shinobu praises, still smiling like she hasn't a care in the world. Christ, she's terrifying. Sanemi's skin crawls just imagining what it'd be like to get on her bad side.
"Ohh, nice!" Mitsuri nods eagerly. "I loved that one. Well, both of them were amazing, but that second one... Wow! Right, Obanai?"
Iguro instantly denies it. "No."
"But just yesterday you sa—"
"Wasn't me."
Sighing, Mitsuri slumps into the table, swirling her glass in dismay.
"It was quite the show," Shinobu pipes up in support of Mitsuri. "The viewers may be easy to please, but our other divisions were just as blown away."
Rengoku flashes a thumbs-up. "I concur!"
"Yeah, right? But there was this one small thing—Giyuu said Shinazugawa's name more than he usually does, and it overlapped with some of the good parts. The editors were on my back about it," Uzui says, making a face. "Whatever. Can't expect them to understa—"
"Do you have a problem with the editing department, Uzui-san?" comes a new voice from way above, rumbling like thunder, and Sanemi nearly drops his drink.
Whipping around in his chair, Sanemi has to tilt his head almost parallel to the ceiling just to get a look at the guy's face. He's huge, even compared to Uzui, towering over their entire table with upturned brows and a perpetually concerned expression. He's dressed to the tee in a crisp suit, too, making Sanemi feel extremely underdressed in his thin t-shirt and well-loved jeans.
"That's Himejima-san," Mitsuri whispers to Sanemi. "He's head of management."
"Oh, also, he's blind," she adds. "But he has crazy good perception, which is why everyone's so scared of him!"
Sanemi nods, head swimming with the new information.
Uzui scoffs. "No, man. I get it. Their job is hard."
"We are all indispensable in the process of creating every film," Himejima says solemnly.
Rengoku beams, "Of course!" at the same time Iguro mutters, "Some more than others."
"Like who?" Mitsuri asks, innocent.
"Are you kidding? These three," Iguro numbers off Sanemi, Giyuu, and Rengoku, "only have the responsibiity of fucking and getting their rocks off on set. Other people actually have to make it look sexy."
"Whoa, whoa," Sanemi interrupts, putting his cup down a good distance away. Then he plants an elbow on the table and slants forward, indignant. "The fuck? That's bullshit. I'd argue that we've got it the toughest."
"Oh, yeah? Go ahead."
"Eek! P-Please, let's get along, everyone!" Mitsuri exclaims, throwing her arms out, flailing. "I'm sorry I asked!"
Sanemi admires her valiant attempt at peacekeeping, but he's got a point to make. "Sure thing, asshole. First, getting hard with no stim. Staying hard with no stim. Coming on command. Holding the weirdest positions. Having sex with literal strangers you sometimes aren't attracted to. Having sex in front of literal strangers. Want me to keep going?"
"I agree," Giyuu says, his first contribution to the conversation since Sanemi joined their table. "We go through a lot."
Iguro sniffs. "You're a bottom. Your opinion is irrelevant."
"And you're not?" Shinobu asks, holding her drink delicately between her fingers, not a hair out of place. Like Sanemi said—terrifying.
Iguro goes firetruck red, and everyone loses their fucking minds. Sanemi howls; Rengoku clutches at his sides; Uzui slaps the table hard enough to make the drinks clatter; Mitsuri bursts out in uncontrollable giggling. Even Giyuu's shaking, one hand clapped over his mouth to stifle his laughter.
"Don't think I'm defending you, Tomioka-san," Shinobu says, resembling a melody. "Your opinions are often irrelevant for many other reasons."
"Brutal." Rengoku wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. Sanemi can relate; his own stomach is starting to ache.
"Do we have someone new here?" Himejima questions, undisturbed by the chaos. "I heard a voice I do not recognize."
Shinobu's the only one coherent enough to reply. "Oh, yes. Directly in front of you is Shinazugawa Sanemi."
Himejima looks down, eyes unseeing where they fix on Sanemi.
"Ah, Shinazugawa. I'm glad you could join us. Thank you for your contributions."
"Yeah, no problem," Sanemi says, accepting Himejima's handshake. He doesn't anticipate the extent of his grip strength, though—trying not to wheeze at the crushing force, Sanemi squeezes back as best as he can with his rapidly numbing fingers.
"Enjoy yourselves, but try not to overdo it. This group is always..." Himejima sighs and shakes his head. "I would like to maintain a good relationship with the owner of this establishment."
"What d'you mean?" Uzui retorts. "We're angels. Also the coolest table here."
Mitsuri flounders, fingers pressed flat to her mouth. "That's...!"
"If we're the cool table," Shinobu says, "then why is Giyuu sitting here?"
"Because he's an ice cold bitch," Iguro replies.
"I see. Well, have a good night." With a courteous bow, Himejima ambles away to another table.
"Jesus fuck." Wincing, Sanemi flexes his wrist to get the blood flowing again.
"Sorry. I should've warned you about that, too," Mitsuri says, sheepish. "Oh! Would you like me to take you around the room and introduce you to some more people?"
That's close to the last thing Sanemi wants, and he tells this to her plainly. She pouts, but concedes on the condition that Sanemi let her at least point out the important people to him, which he can tolerate. As Mitsuri goes around the room, aligning herself with Sanemi and singling out tables across the room, Sanemi can practically feel Iguro glaring at him. He has no clue why the guy hates his guts so much, but it makes it difficult for him to concentrate on what Mitsuri's saying.
Actually, he does. Once, he and Giyuu spent a good hour analyzing the convoluted relations between Mitsuri and Iguro. Mitsuri's cluelessness and Iguro's major jealousy issues have led to over a year of back-and-forth flirting and flustering that both of them refuse to acknowledge. Ultimately, everyone else suffers; even Giyuu, who is gay, has not been spared. It seems that anyone Mitsuri takes a liking to (namely, everyone) is automatically added to Iguro's hit list.
The next round turns out to be an array of shots. Sanemi takes the glass Shinobu hands to him, knocks it back all at once, and distantly hears someone whistles when he slams it back down to the table. As he blinks away the burn and licks a stray drop from his lips, Giyuu does the same beside him. His face strains, but he doesn't grimace, reaching for a second before Sanemi can gather his bearings.
"Damn, Tomioka," he murmurs, and Giyuu blinks at him with that pretty blue, throat bobbing. "You drinking to forget, or what?"
Giyuu throws that second shot down, holding eye contact all the while, and shudders.
"Fuck," he hisses, shaking it off. "Ugh, no. And don't call me that. Sounds wrong."
"What, 'Tomioka'?"
Giyuu nods. He looks a little dazed, eyes just slightly unfocused.
"Yeah? Why?"
"Jus' told you," Giyuu says. And, oh, he's slurring. "Sounds wrong. Everyone calls me Tomioka. Not you."
Sanemi can't fucking breathe. There's air that he's inhaling, exhaling, inhaling again, but he feels like he's suffocating. Drowning underwater, pinned down by ocean eyes and waves of hair darker than midnight.
"You sayin' I'm special or something, Tomioka?"
"Giyuu."
"Answer the fucking question," Sanemi says, snapping a little.
Giyuu's eyes blow out. Not good, not good—
"...Maybe."
Sanemi tries to swallow, but there's something stuck in his throat. "Shit, whatever."
Dropping it, Sanemi makes the executive decision to sip water for the next half hour. Giyuu doesn't say anything else, either, largely staring off into space save for the few times Shinobu drags him back to reality with a pointed question.
Sanemi drifts in and out of the ongoing conversation, which has turned to rowdy nonsense that none of them will remember come morning. Every now and then someone from the outside strays over to say hi, whether it be another director, an actor familiar with either Giyuu or Rengoku, or one of Mitsuri's many friends. They receive quite a few compliments for their most recent work, too, and Sanemi even ends up with a handful of business cards from other producers.
He thought Uzui was joking with the whole "coolest table" thing, but they might be a little popular.
When Sanemi shifts in his seat, trying to adjust the position of his legs, his knee bumps into Giyuu's.
"Sorry," he mumbles.
"It's okay," Giyuu says, and doesn't move his knee away.
"Who's getting the next one?" Rengoku fumbles, waving around yet another empty glass, face flushed almost as red as the ends of his hair.
Sanemi thinks they should stop. He intends to tell them, out loud, that they should stop. Instead, he says, "Me."
"That'a boy, Shinazugawa!" Uzui cackles. "Go get 'em. We're just getting started."
Thankfully, the floor doesn't swim beneath his feet when Sanemi stands up. The room tilts a little, though, but rights itself soon enough. Sanemi grabs the trays, shuffles out from between the chairs, and makes it one step before he feels a tug on the hem of his shirt.
Looking down, he finds Giyuu drawing his hand back, hair loose around his face.
"Wait," he says, "I'll go with you."
"Don't need your help," Sanemi sneers. And waits for him anyway. When Giyuu finally struggles his way out of his seat, Sanemi passes him one of the trays and heads for the center of the room.
It could be anywhere from eleven p.m. to one a.m., but Sanemi's lost his grip on time. He's distinctly aware of Giyuu only a couple steps behind him, following him through the crowd and stopping at his left side once they reach the bar. Their elbows graze briefly, jostled by the people around them.
Sanemi doesn't have to say a word; the bartender takes one look at him and Giyuu, the trays littered with empty shot glasses, and grabs a bottle with a label that blurs when Sanemi tries to read it. Leaning forward, he welcomes the chill that soaks into his arms from the counter underneath.
"Sanemi," Giyuu says.
Sanemi grunts, rubbing at his forehead. He doesn't have a headache—yet. Depending on what Giyuu says next, however, that may change soon enough.
"Are you having fun?" is all he asks, so Sanemi figures he's probably safe for now.
"Yeah," he replies. "It's fuckin' great."
Silence. With a chest-deep sigh and a strength he doesn't have, Sanemi lifts his head.
This close to the main source of light in the room, he can see Giyuu clearer than he could at the table. The first thing Sanemi zeroes in on are his lips, red and glossy with how many times he's bitten into them this evening. He looks like he's been sucking—
Nope. The alcohol might be fucking him up more than expected, but Sanemi is not going to let his thoughts go down that route, nor is he going to pop a boner in the middle of public.
Giyuu bites at his abused lip, worrying it between his teeth. He looks away, nudging a stray cup with the tip of his finger, and a sheet of black hair slips past his shoulder to shield him from Sanemi's tired gaze. The rest of it stays pinned back.
Finally, he says, "I'm glad."
"Well, you better, since you were the one who invited me." Sanemi stands up straight as the bartender arranges their empty shot glasses into neat rows and starts to pour the mix into each one, a thin waterfall of inebriation and piss-poor decisions.
"Oh. Yeah."
Sanemi snorts. "Dumbass. Are you even having fun?"
"Um... I guess."
"You don't usually come to these things, right?"
Giyuu nods, a movement so slight Sanemi would've missed it if he weren't paying attention.
"Here," Sanemi decides, taking two shots off the tray and pushing one towards Giyuu. He glances down at it, then up at Sanemi, confused. "We'll take one together. Uzui said this whole thing was a celebration for us, anyway. Come on."
"It's definitely not for us." Giyuu picks up the glass anyway, fingers slim around it.
"Then next time we'll make it about us."
Giyuu's mouth twitches up, the ghost of a smile. "Sounds like a threat."
"Maybe it is," Sanemi shoots back, and watches as that smile blossoms to completion. It's so small—barely there, close-mouthed, curving imperceptibly—and it hurls Sanemi back underwater, flooding his lungs 'til he can't draw another breath. So small, and still it softens the tension in his mouth and the dullness in his eyes, making him glow as a lightning bug does on a lone summer night. Looking at him, Sanemi is reminded of the park and the water by which Giyuu had let him into the seed of his heart, only to shut him back out with steel padlocks and an iron gate.
Maybe, with this smile, he's unlocked one of them again.
It's sad, really. Hopeless. Sanemi's already so far gone, dangling off the precipice, and it took him a boatload of alcohol to realize just how bad it was, too. Rejected less than a month ago and here he is, fixated on a pretty boy's smile and his blushing cheeks.
With great regret and great relief, Sanemi takes his eyes off that smile. He taps his glass against Giyuu's, the faintest clink ringing out between them. "Cheers."
"...Cheers."
"On the count of three, yeah?" Sanemi cocks an eyebrow and brings the rim up to his lips. Giyuu mirrors him, shoulder-to-shoulder. "One, two, three."
Moving in sync, they toss their shots down without swallowing. Sanemi sets his glass down first, working his jaw around the fire and fighting the urge to cough. Giyuu's follows shortly after, rattling against the counter. He actually does cough, pressing a fist to his mouth and scrunching his nose unpleasantly. It's a little cute.
"You good?" Sanemi asks, belated, and Giyuu jerks his chin up and down in an irregular nod. "Alright, Giyuu. Let's go back."
Giyuu coughs once more, then pulls his fist away. When he takes up his tray, it starts to list, wobbling. Sanemi snaps a hand out to steady it, heart hammering against his ribs.
"Watch it," he warns. Only when he's sure the drinks are safe and looking Giyuu in the eye does Sanemi realize that isn't the smooth plastic of the tray he's feeling under his palm, but Giyuu's hand.
He snatches it away, an apology ready on his tongue, but Giyuu doesn't seem at all phased by the sudden touch. The tray wobbles again, not enough to warrant another knee-jerk reaction from Sanemi, and quickly Giyuu uses his other hand to hold it on both sides.
"Okay," Giyuu says. "I've got it."
Carefully, Sanemi picks up his own tray and lets Giyuu lead the way back to their table. They don't drop anything, nor come close to it, but Sanemi's heart doesn't stop pounding.
Giyuu gets drunker than he means to.
In the beginning, he set a restriction for himself: no more than three drinks. No shots at all. Drink a glass of water in between each one, eat if you can, and stay away from the shots.
In the end, Giyuu overrides them all. He has no one to blame but himself and his deplorable lack of self-control. But no matter how hard he tries, rummaging around in the hollow cavity of his chest, Giyuu can't seem to find any remorse inside him.
Though Giyuu is no stranger to drinking, it's been a while since he's gotten this wasted. It feels good, warmth looping through his limbs, blocking out the constant droning of his mind on a daily basis.
Before, Giyuu said Shinobu was the one who forced him to come tonight. She did tell him it'd be rude of him to miss this one because he's been among the big names circulating the company these past few months, but Giyuu knows that if he'd been resolute in his determination not to go, Shinobu would've relented.
Before, when Giyuu was sober, it was hard to figure out why he ended up coming. Maybe he had wanted to make it up to Sanemi for lying and saying no, he hadn't wanted to meet up. Make it up to himself, too, but in a way that didn't put him in danger.
But no, that isn't it. Not the full truth, anyhow.
Giyuu's tired. Tired and drunk enough to admit he just wanted to see Sanemi again. And, see: it didn't kill him, admitting that.
Because technically—and Giyuu hung onto this logic for dear life—this doesn't count as meeting up outside of work, right? It's a work-related function with people from work. Easy. Nothing more to it.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
With every hour, he grows more daring, more foolish. When Sanemi's leg touches his under the table, Giyuu pointedly does not move it away. When their eyes meet, Giyuu bites his lip and doesn't cower away. It's a message if Giyuu's ever sent one, one that ashames him, exhilarates him.
Sanemi picks up on it, every little thing. Whenever he notices, he'll look at Giyuu with this indecipherable film over his eyes, but it never reads back off. And Giyuu will return his look in the same way, wanting something he can't piece together.
It's hard to hear and hard to see, a staticky layer over Giyuu's senses. Someone says something, the table shakes with laughter; a fleeting touch, a fleeting look. Over and over and over, and the night races by faster than it ever has.
At some point, Sanemi excuses himself to go to the restroom. It might have to do with Giyuu's last move, in which he held Sanemi's gaze through lowered lashes for far too long.
Running strictly on autopilot, Giyuu slips out of his seat and follows him.
In the men's room, which is just as nice as the rest of the place, Giyuu finds Sanemi hunched over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain on each side. His head snaps up at Giyuu's entrance, eyes locking with his through the mirror.
"You need something?" Sanemi asks, voice low and face taut like he already knows the answer.
Giyuu feels out the smooth plane of the door behind him. There's a roaring in his head that pelts at his skull, engulfing whatever sense is left inside him.
"Sanemi," he whispers, saying the rest with his eyes because his tongue won't cooperate. Sanemi watches as he pushes himself off the door and moves closer, closer. His arms tense, agitated. Giyuu lifts a hand. "Sane—"
Sanemi grabs him by the wrist. Then he pulls.
Giyuu jolts, stumbling forward until he's nose-to-nose with Sanemi, staring him right in the face. The shock stuns a moment of clarity into him, one that vanishes so fast it might as well have never appeared.
His eyes drop to Sanemi's lips. Sanemi must notice, because his grip on Giyuu's wrist tightens almost painfully. Giyuu winces, twisting his hand without breaking free, and looks back up. Sanemi stares him down, more intense than Giyuu remembers, eerie shadows cast over his face by the dim lights above.
"I thought you didn't do this shit with the people you work with," Sanemi says, cracking the silence, but it isn't accusing. More confused, lost. Giyuu flinches anyway, guilt welling up into his throat, buoyed by shame.
"I..." He swallows. Wracks his mind. Comes up empty.
Three years—three long, long years—of repressing his desires. Ignoring what he wants, beating them off time and time again with a stick whittled down to a twig. Wasn't this moment inevitable? That this churning pit of desire, of yearning, would rise with vengeance, a typhoon born out of the gentle sea.
Giyuu's only human. Against a typhoon, he's nothing.
Tonight. Just once. He can have this just once, can't he? Three years, and he's never once in his life wanted something as much as this: to have sex like a normal person, to do it with someone of his own choosing.
The rational part of his conscious—weak, frail, miserable—knows he's being selfish. Terribly, horribly selfish. It's easy to stamp that voice of reason out, as easy as it is to crush the dying embers of a cigarette under his heel.
He's drunk. He's drunk and lonely and horny and fuck, he deserves this.
Sanemi's fingers, curled warm and iron-hard over his wrist, start to loosen. "What do you want?"
You.
The alcohol has driven all coherent thought from Giyuu's mind. For now, he tilts forward, closing the miniscule distance between them, and touches his mouth to the corner of Sanemi's.
It can hardly be called a kiss, feathery light, insecure. Still, it puts a match to his blood and turns his stomach inside out.
Sanemi freezes, grip going tight again, but he doesn't pull away. Stands there, stiff as a rock, eyes wide open, as Giyuu brushes their lips together. Chaste, dry, dangerous.
And feels the first pinpricks of dread. Sanemi isn't moving, stockstill as Giyuu makes a fool of himself. He might want Sanemi, but that doesn't mean Sanemi wants him.
Just as Giyuu starts to back away, Sanemi yanks him in with the hand on his wrist, the room spins, and the back of his head collides with something hard and flat. It's the wall, Giyuu realizes, and watches Sanemi lean in close, caging him in, hands fisted at either side of his head. His eyes latch onto Giyuu's mouth, stuck.
The world stops for no one. It turns round and round in its infinite impartiality and cruel indifference, revolving through suffering and happiness alike. Giyuu knows this, yet he feels time grind to a halt around him—around them, this fated encounter where Giyuu will have to make a choice that will either save or destroy him.
There's a clusterfuck of emotions jumbled deep inside him. Aching for more, trying to stop himself. Feeling like he'll die if he walks away now, knowing he will if he doesn't. Enabling himself, suppressing it again.
Wanting Sanemi. Knowing he can't have him.
And instead of confronting the mess, the ugliness, the turmoil, Giyuu tapes it up in a box and crams it all away. He makes his decision, for better or for worse.
"I want you," he whispers. I can't have you. "Please. I want you."
Sanemi searches his face, something treacherous lurking in his eyes. "Say it again."
"I want you," Giyuu repeats, mindless, and Sanemi's breath falters. His hands fall from the wall to Giyuu's waist, then his hips.
"Tell me to stop." Sanemi doesn't sound like himself with that tightness in his voice. His thumbs stroke over Giyuu's skin through his clothes, lighting him up. "Giyuu. I can't—"
"Don't stop," Giyuu says, and whatever was stirring behind Sanemi's eyes flares like a torch.
"You're going to be the death of me," Sanemi mutters, something tender about it, and kisses him for real.
Giyuu opens up for it immediately, angling his chin to ease Sanemi's way, to let him deepen it. Sanemi bites at his bottom lip, then kisses it, slotting their mouths together fully.
Sanemi's kissing him in a public bathroom where anyone, including their colleagues, could walk in at any moment. Sanemi is kissing him, and Giyuu doesn't hate it one bit.
No, he doesn't hate it. He loves it, enough to fist his hands into the collar of Sanemi's shirt and yank him in closer, closer, until the whole length of his body weighs heavy over Giyuu's own, crushing him into the tile behind him. Sanemi tastes like nothing, like everything, hot and cold and salty and sweet, compelling as a drug. Giyuu kisses him back just to memorize it—raging, healing, torture and bliss rolled into one.
He's going to fuck Sanemi out of his system, and that will be the end of it. It won't yield anything. He'll set fire to this chapter of his life if he has to, but first he has to douse the one inside him right now.
"Take me home," Giyuu murmurs, mouth like cotton, numb with words he can no longer recognize.
Sanemi does.
They don't even think of saying goodbye to the rest of the group.
They push through the party, down the stairs, through the double glass doors, into the street. Into the cold open air, the bespeckled city, the starless night above, where Sanemi hails a taxi and Giyuu hangs onto him for dear life. He's afraid that if he were to let go, he'd collapse through the pavement.
Giyuu wanted to keep kissing him—wanted to kiss him forever—but when he started to climb into Sanemi's lap their driver told them to cool it before he threw them out. And as long as Sanemi fucks him by the end of the night, Giyuu can endure a short wait.
What's tricky is the climb up to Sanemi's apartment. Their shins keep banging together, feet tangling, accidentally elbowing the other when they try to take the same step at the same time. Once, Sanemi reels him in by the front of his shirt to take his mouth again, right there in the middle of a staircase for everyone to see.
They crash through the front door with a bang, Sanemi shoving Giyuu up against it, the knob digging painfully into the small of his back. Giyuu tries to snag a glimpse of the apartment over his shoulder, but Sanemi pulls him away with another searing kiss, pushing his hands under Giyuu's clothes to grope at his waist and up the slope of his back. Giyuu falls into it, eyes slipping shut, fumbling to yank Sanemi's shirt out of his jeans.
"Sanemi," Giyuu sighs, breath catching when Sanemi works the front of his pants open, unzipping them only partially before darting back up to strip Giyuu's shirt from his body.
Then Sanemi's tearing himself away, grabbing Giyuu by the elbow, and towing him deeper into the apartment. Giyuu staggers after him, knees already weak, praying he doesn't ruin the mood by falling flat on his face.
In a short hallway, probably only steps from the bedroom, Sanemi crowds him into the wall, chest to back. His lips find the shell of Giyuu's ear, mouthing at it until he gasps and arches back on instinct. Sanemi rocks forward to meet him, bold, letting Giyuu feel him through the layers of their clothes.
"Want me to fuck you here?" he asks, rolls their hips together again.
With a little moan, Giyuu nods, fingers curling. The wall is cold and solid under his palms, and the thought of Sanemi taking him up against it goes straight to his dick, aching within his pants.
"Shit. Okay, I'll go grab... You want a condom?"
To the wall, Giyuu shakes his head no. He wants all of it—to feel everything. On the high of the night and the drinks in his veins and Sanemi's rapid heartbeat, Giyuu can't even hope to resist the temptation.
As close as he is, Giyuu can feel the tremor that runs through Sanemi's body. He swears again, squeezing Giyuu's hips before stepping away.
Giyuu stays put, leaning most of his weight against the wall. By the sound of it, Sanemi went into the room directly behind them, whatever it may be. At record speed, he opens a drawer, riffles through it, and grabs what he needs. When he returns, pressing up behind Giyuu again, his chest is bare.
Sanemi traces his way down Giyuu's back, starting at the spot between his shoulder blades and feeling out the bumps of his spine. Finally, fingers hooked into the belt loops, he shuffles Giyuu's pants down to his knees. There's the telltale click of a cap, deafening loud in the dark, and the anticipation peaks.
Sanemi puts his mouth to Giyuu's ear again and whispers something he has a hard time processing, unwittingly focused on those lube-slick fingers sliding down his skin. With his other hand Sanemi pries him open, exposing him to the overbearing pressure of his gaze. Giyuu shivers once at the coldness of the air, then again at the first touch to his hole.
For how demanding he was when shoving Giyuu into this position, Sanemi is relatively patient in spreading the lube over his rim, getting him to relax. Dips the first finger in, shallow, a flash of pleasure and a sweet promise of more.
"Please," Giyuu mumbles into his wrist, without a shred of shame, and the rest of that finger slides in. He accepts it easily, happily, along with the second, then the third.
Sanemi works him open fast, stretching him out with an urgency that pricks stars into the back of Giyuu's eyelids. The heat in his belly pulses, insistent, clamoring for more, sending him rocking back onto Sanemi's hand in his impatience.
Sanemi hisses, tries to pin him in place. "Fucking—Giyuu, wait. It's not enough."
"Don't care," Giyuu says, on the brink of whining. God, he sounds needy. "Get in me, now—"
"Fuck, okay." Sanemi fucks his fingers in one more time, rough, before drawing them out. "Shit, you're desperate for it."
Giyuu nods, unable to deny it, letting Sanemi knock his knees farther apart and drop a kiss to his shoulder. The blunt head of his cock taps against Giyuu's hole, then rubs over it, catching the rim on every pass. At the tease, Giyuu can't help but turn around to watch Sanemi put it in, muscles straining to hold himself there, still, arched perfectly to take it.
Sanemi holds his next breath abnormally long, releases it through his teeth, then starts to push his way inside. A curtain of white covers his eyes, trained on the point where he disappears into Giyuu's body, one hand holding his cock steady, the other curled over Giyuu's left hip.
It burns, the kind of stretch he knows all too well, and Giyuu has to give up his stance to face the wall again. Once Sanemi's worked half his dick inside, his free hand finds Giyuu's other hip, pulling him back at the same time he bottoms out.
"Nnh—" Giyuu jerks, trapped with nowhere to go.
"You ready?" Sanemi rasps, breathing just as ragged as Giyuu. "Won't be gentle, but I think you're okay with that."
"Yeah." His voice is so small it barely qualifies as a whisper. Grasping for strength, Giyuu tries again: "Yes."
Sanemi doesn't wait. He goes hard—short, rough thrusts that crush Giyuu's cheek to the wall, forearms propped against it, gasping without air. And when his knees start to give out, Sanemi lets up, switching to longer, smoother strokes that let Giyuu feel every ridge, every drag of his dick. Sometimes he presses in as deep as he can go and stays there, grinding up into the heat until Giyuu shudders and begs him please, please, please. Only then does he pull back, leaving just the very tip of his cock inside, before slamming home with enough force to rock Giyuu into the wall.
It's anything but consistent, what Giyuu's used to on set. Just when he acclimates to the rhythm, Sanemi changes it, throws him for a curveball.
It might be because of the alcohol, or all the pent-up tension stacked between them, but Giyuu has a feeling this is just the way Sanemi fucks. Outside the scripts, the camera, the unrealistic fantasy he has to put on, this is how he'd ruin Giyuu for any other lay. It's so him, wild and impulsive as nature's storm, flipping on a whim and chasing whatever feels good, whatever makes Giyuu moan the loudest.
He had a whiff of it, back during their two scenes together. Now that he's tasted it in full, gulped it down in mouthfuls, Giyuu thinks he might be addicted.
This is what sex feels like. What it should feel like. Giyuu wants to do it all the time. Every day, every hour, for the rest of his life.
"Ah, ah, fuck—Sa—ahh—"
"Giyuu," Sanemi says, softer than Giyuu's ever heard him, like he's speaking a thought that would've remained unspoken if not for the alcohol. "You've no idea how much I've wanted to do this."
The wall blurs. Giyuu scrambles at it, searching for a stability long lost to him.
"No idea—how much I thought about this. Having you here, without anyone else."
Then Sanemi hits him just right, and Giyuu drops his forehead to the plaster with a moan torn straight from his chest.
"God, you're perfect," Sanemi sighs into the corner of Giyuu's jaw. "Better than my dreams."
"I—" Giyuu eats his own words, shut down.
"What?" Sanemi pants, slowing down, hooking his chin over Giyuu's shoulder. "Can't hear you."
In the small respite, Giyuu tries to calm his breathing, inhaling air so sharp it stings his lungs. Lips press into his temple, trailing down his cheek to the line of his throat, dropping open-mouthed kisses into his skin. Giyuu leans into it, eyes fluttering shut, biting his lip at the lazy slide of Sanemi's cock inside him, the deep roll of his hips.
"I thought about this, too," Giyuu says, faint. "A lot."
Sanemi groans, low and primal. "Yeah?"
Giyuu tries to speak, but every beautiful nudge against that spot inside him cuts him short.
"Mmh, yeah... Fuck—"
"Did you think about it on the job?" Sanemi asks, giddy, picking up the pace again. "When you were getting dicked down by other guys?"
"Ohh—"
Yes, he did. Fuck, he did, and god does he hate himself for it. Even Akaza, who demanded attention in his own right, couldn't keep his traitorous mind off Sanemi. He had Giyuu over a desk, creaking with each thrust, grinning down at him with those shattered-glass eyes, and still every time Giyuu blinked he saw Sanemi above him instead. It drove him mad just as it drove him to orgasm, head pitched back, hating that all he could think of was tousled white hair and knotted scars.
But Giyuu doesn't want to tell Sanemi that. There's something shameful in the confession, something taboo, and just the thought of it has Giyuu squirming against the wall, blushing hot all over. It must reach the tips of his ears, because Sanemi bites at the lobe of one, rumbling a laugh along his back.
"You did, huh? Hah, shit—thought so."
"God, fuck, fuck, Sanemi—"
"I did, too," Sanemi admits, right into Giyuu's ear. His hips snap forward harder, faster, and Giyuu's mouth falls open, soundless, forehead thunking to the wall. "There was this girl, a while—fuck—a while back. I thought of you, then, to get off. Fuu—just like that, fuck."
"You—ohh, yes, yes, mmn," Giyuu whines, palms slippery with sweat, losing their purchase on the wall. The only thing keeping him upright is Sanemi, pressed so close Giyuu can't tell if the heartbeat in his ears is his own anymore.
"And the first time," he goes on, "the first time we shot that scene, I wanted to bring you home. See if I could get you to, nngh, drop the fucking act."
From the start, Giyuu thinks, crazed. He wanted to—
"Never thought it'd be this good," Sanemi continues, borderline rambling. "Always—always feel so good, Giyuu, baby."
Impossibly, Giyuu feels drunker than he was before, even without injecting anymore alcohol into his blood. Maybe he's getting high off this, off Sanemi. If he is, it wouldn't be the first time.
Behind him, Sanemi buries his face into Giyuu's hair, nosing it away from his nape, panting hot and wet every time he drives back into Giyuu's body.
Then, mouth sealed over Giyuu's neck, he bites down. Hard. Breaking skin, pulling blood to the surface, bruising it dark. Giyuu doesn't need a mirror to know, because no part of his body has ever stung like this before.
On set, it's a rule not to leave marks. Bruises, hickeys, anything that would stand out on camera. Sometimes it's unavoidable, when the sex is too rough to leave him completely unscathed, but it's never anything that can't be solved with a couple day's rest and a bit of concealer. Kissing is fine, if not excessive, but anything below the mouth is typically reserved for the more intimate scenes. Even so, it's never this desperate, this messy, because while Giyuu's never wanted someone this badly, no one has ever wanted him just as much.
This may explain why, as Sanemi's teeth press into his skin, Giyuu's hips buck hard enough to knock him off pace. Sanemi has to restrain him with both hands, fingers dug deep into his waist, pulling him back onto his cock.
"More," Giyuu chokes out, blind with pleasure. "More, Sanemi. More. P—uh—please."
Against his neck, Sanemi moans, fanning warmth where Giyuu already blazes fire-hot. He finds another spot, then another, dotting Giyuu's skin with the proof of their sex, of everything Giyuu's wanted and hidden away in the secret cavern of his heart. When Sanemi reaches his throat, kissing over his pulse point, Giyuu tilts his head back to give him more room.
"God. You love this, don't you," Sanemi breathes, awed, then closes his teeth over a strip of skin just under Giyuu's jaw.
"Fuck—!"
Fuck. Fuck. He loves it. The throbbing pain, the soothing tongue, the knowledge that it will last long after tonight. He loves it, cradles it in his chest, sharing in the warmth before it dissipates right above his rebel heart.
He should stop it. They might not be on set, but Giyuu still has to work in the next week, and the damage that Sanemi's doing to his neck and his throat and the curve of his shoulder won't heal in the same amount of time.
Oh, but he loves it. If he loves it, why should he ask Sanemi to stop? A small price to pay, isn't it—after waiting three long, long years.
So he lets it happen. He lets Sanemi mark him up all over, and then some.
One of Sanemi's hands wanders down the back of his thigh, settling behind the knee and propping it up. Like this, the angle shifts, and Sanemi sinks so deep inside Giyuu cries out. The fullness wipes his mind blank, fucks a high, helpless noise out of him.
His hand slams against the wall, palm forward, fingers splayed apart. He almost jumps when the solid weight of Sanemi's hand rests over his own, grounding, rooting him down to Earth. Prevents him from floating off into space, outside of gravity's pull.
Then his fingers lock with Giyuu's, holding fast, a point of connection that burns hotter than the one between their hips.
"This the first time you've done this, Giyuu?" Sanemi asks, persisting even when he's already fucked Giyuu incoherent, past the point of wrecked, "Am I the first you've been with like this?"
He's the first. Has always been the first—the first to wring an orgasm out of him untouched, the first to know him as him, the first to fuck him off camera, the first Giyuu has ever—
Reaching around his waist, Sanemi wraps a loose hand around his cock, flicking upward once, and Giyuu comes with the ashes of that thought stuck under his tongue.
It has the wretched tang of tragedy. The sobbing relief of salvation.
Split between both, he crashes
Word count- 11357