[ Humans had always communicated with the full of their bodies.
Whether it was with the subtle dip of their shoulders, the tilt of their head, the brush of their hands — Ryo could discern intention but cared little to discern the emotions behind it. It hadn’t mattered to him, as much as Akira had mattered to him. In the past, pressed into the corners of clubs with the thrum of music like a secondary heart, he didn’t care at all of what else others may have wanted at the end of a handful of moments they though they had him to themselves. Ryo would never admit the adjustments he’d made, the dissatisfied conclusions he’d come up with. What was the point of doing something so base, beyond ingrained imperative?
He never found an answer. Or, perhaps, he’d looked to untangle the knots within himself with the wrong hands, the wrong touch, the wrong press of lips against the pale of his skin like a brand. It was all only a means to reproduce, for some a way to release stress. For others, it was pleasure for pleasure’s sake, but – Akira’s hand is gentle. He feels the rough of his fingers at his hairline. His stomach lurches, in ways he can’t identify as the implication of a smile rests in the gesture. He almost flinches from the flare of vulnerability he feels, but Akira keeps him pinned and Akira keeps him occupied with the sear of his mouth, the snag of his teeth across flesh.
Akira had always been the only fixture in his life. Beyond Jenny, Akira had been the only one he wanted to grant his attentions to. He’d been the only one at all that he could seek out, would think to seek out — would risk the world with, the thread tied about its circumference a messy web between their too young hands.
But, here, the urgency singes differently. It circles the periphery, but the unspooling of time is ineffable and incalculable. To stay here, in this space they now occupy, could be as endless as the events that spun about them allowed, but sex was an urge. It was a driving force for many. And impatience and patience clips at Akira’s heel as Ryo inspires in him a pause so profound that he seeks him out.
Akira, he tries, though it is only his lips that move about the rise and fall of syllables. The sound does not follow, caught up in his lungs like the hot burn of smoke. It makes his eyes flutter in the sudden and unbidden absence of Akira’s weight, his eyebrows knitting for the briefest of moments before he knows innately, what it is that Akira needs. Before he can formulate it with his tongue, before he can say it with the full of his body, Ryo puzzles out the shape of it and understands it in the way that he can understand it – an unknown territory, a word unable to be read, a hypothesis unable to be supported even despite the full of one’s desires. He could have guessed. But, there’s no frustration that digs into the full of him. There is no ridicule. It’s only — ]
Akira, [ he starts again, his name like a worried stone in his mouth. He knows the shape of it intimately, the rounded edges of it — light and sweet against his tongue. Even if his voice frays in ways rawer than tender around the effort it takes to draw air into his lungs, Akira’s trepidation signals the same actions it always does. He’d always been there to ground Akira, assure him, as much as Akira had assured Ryo in ways he could not and still cannot allow himself to understand.
But, that shudder has stoked something hungry and silent in him — the cool of his exterior there, but thawing underneath. He can’t stem the inevitable way it will fissure in places, the few and scattered times he’d done this strange in comparison. It’d been a curiosity, an itch. This — he shoves the thought aside, focuses with the remaining restraint he keeps lashed about himself. ]
We'll handle this first, [ he breathes out, his words catching against shorter exhalations — the impression of Akira's form bracketing him in. He feels comfortable beneath him like this, surrounded in the warmth that was distinctly his. Ryo feels out the shape of him with the hand that’s dipped beneath the only fabric left, maps the harder lines of his body and down the musculature of an arm. Ryo's hand, imbued with the heat he'd stolen from him, rests over the one that trails the soft skin of his stomach. The muscles beneath the rough of Akira's palm flutter and clench and Ryo can just make out the tension that threads through him. He curls his fingers beneath the meat of Akira's palm, gives it a directive nudge toward the teeth of the zipper. The hand at Akira’s shoulder lingers, before lifting and lowering to rest against the sheets. He leans up on his elbow then, mindful, presses his lips to the corner of his mouth. Akira smells sharp, heady. Ryo catches the scent of him again, similar and dissimilar to the Akira he’d always known as he breathes in, slow and thin and steadying. He can feel the material of his jumpsuit dip, the way it pools off one shoulder to follow to the crook of the elbow he rests on. This close, he can see the desperation that fans through Akira like a flame, that rests in his expression like a familiar scripture, something different in the way that an encounter with Akira impacts him. It scrapes against the surface of all that Ryo is like the pale shell of the moon. He lowers the lift of his knees, but keeps their legs tangled – his ankle strokes down the back of his calf. He feels the tension here too and he doesn’t think at all as he kisses him once and fleetingly, the hand that guides Akira’s dipping beneath what little the fabric of his jumpsuit has left to hide. He leaves it against the hotter skin of his hip. It’s an invitation to make good on what he says, what he suggests. ]
It's okay, [ he leaves against Akira's skin. I have you, is there too, a muted thing that curls between them as he pulls back just enough to see him. The weight of Akira’s gaze is almost sears him in how much it desires and the hand that had once instructed lifting. His fingers, once so cool, trace the newer angles of Akira’s face. Like this, Ryo can almost see him clearly in the dark and he takes a breath, primal impulse bearing down against logical process like a rock thrown offshore. Eventually, even that would be worn away beneath the unwavering heat that’s hooked into his gut. Arousal is a long process, a constellation of fragmented sentences and chemicals strung together into a complex and instinctual narrative. What Ryo feels now is just that, an evolutionary weave and a biological imperative – encoded in the language his genetics has left. That constancy and certainty steadies him, though the proclamation Akira had issued hums through him like a current, like the barometric dip of atmospheric pressure before a storm comes it. Ryo aches in a way that’s bone deep and painful, his heartrate stuttering with each smaller move Akira makes, the evidence of his want in the way Akira speaks to him, presses close to him. Ryo shifts beneath him, a short and shivering stretch that comes as reflex. ] Once that's off, lie down on your side. [ His eyes lid against the way he presses his own hip into the manipulated curve of Akira’s palm. ] Face me.
[ It will have to do for now, he knows. Until he can tell him of anything else, it's better to start without further wait. ]
Don't be afraid to touch me, [ he continues in a murmur. The hand that frames Akira’s face snakes downward in demonstration, down along the column of his throat, along the front of his chest. It rests briefly there, feeling the pace of Akira’s heart beneath his skin. Fast, like his own, with the steady stream of adrenaline. It must be as loud, he knows, in Akira’s ears. It must be just as unbearable to strain to hear over, but — Ryo’s hand continues to firmer plain of his abs, sweeps over the hardness of muscle there with a sort of reverence for what they’ve made of him. ] You're familiar with yourself, aren't you? [ Ryo’s hand isn’t shy, doesn’t halt with uncertainty. Akira had asked, plainly and openly. And Ryo had translated it, in the markers of language Akira’s body and voice left across his own.
It’s a narrow space to work with, the back of his own hand brushing up against himself as much as Akira. He swallows an immediate hitch of breath, the smooth of his palm molding with gentle conviction against the press of Akira’s cock against the tight of the briefs he wears. His fingers drag against the thick of its outline, the pad of his thumb angled to press just beneath the head. He swallows reflexively, the pink of his tongue touching against the corner of his own mouth. ] Treat me like that, [ he says, his voice more a singular bloom of breath. He doesn’t look away, his eyes trained on where he knows Akira’s must be. He keeps his own body still, strokes Akira once and slow through the scant material. The corners of his lips catch against something softer, almost indiscernible in the dim and against the shallows of his inhalations, exhalations. ] I trust you.
[ And he does. He always has. Since the moment he’d pulled his cold body to him, wrapped his arms around the frame that had been without touch for as long as Ryo could recall. Akira had always been careful, had never intruded. He’d waited for Ryo, with his hand outstretched. He’d closed so many distances, even if Ryo could not fully read the scope and depth of it. Even if he could not admit to himself the entirety of it, a small and fragile thing a splinter between his ribs, angled at his heart.
(cw/tw: consensual sex between two teens)
Whether it was with the subtle dip of their shoulders, the tilt of their head, the brush of their hands — Ryo could discern intention but cared little to discern the emotions behind it. It hadn’t mattered to him, as much as Akira had mattered to him. In the past, pressed into the corners of clubs with the thrum of music like a secondary heart, he didn’t care at all of what else others may have wanted at the end of a handful of moments they though they had him to themselves. Ryo would never admit the adjustments he’d made, the dissatisfied conclusions he’d come up with. What was the point of doing something so base, beyond ingrained imperative?
He never found an answer. Or, perhaps, he’d looked to untangle the knots within himself with the wrong hands, the wrong touch, the wrong press of lips against the pale of his skin like a brand. It was all only a means to reproduce, for some a way to release stress. For others, it was pleasure for pleasure’s sake, but – Akira’s hand is gentle. He feels the rough of his fingers at his hairline. His stomach lurches, in ways he can’t identify as the implication of a smile rests in the gesture. He almost flinches from the flare of vulnerability he feels, but Akira keeps him pinned and Akira keeps him occupied with the sear of his mouth, the snag of his teeth across flesh.
Akira had always been the only fixture in his life. Beyond Jenny, Akira had been the only one he wanted to grant his attentions to. He’d been the only one at all that he could seek out, would think to seek out — would risk the world with, the thread tied about its circumference a messy web between their too young hands.
But, here, the urgency singes differently. It circles the periphery, but the unspooling of time is ineffable and incalculable. To stay here, in this space they now occupy, could be as endless as the events that spun about them allowed, but sex was an urge. It was a driving force for many. And impatience and patience clips at Akira’s heel as Ryo inspires in him a pause so profound that he seeks him out.
Akira, he tries, though it is only his lips that move about the rise and fall of syllables. The sound does not follow, caught up in his lungs like the hot burn of smoke. It makes his eyes flutter in the sudden and unbidden absence of Akira’s weight, his eyebrows knitting for the briefest of moments before he knows innately, what it is that Akira needs. Before he can formulate it with his tongue, before he can say it with the full of his body, Ryo puzzles out the shape of it and understands it in the way that he can understand it – an unknown territory, a word unable to be read, a hypothesis unable to be supported even despite the full of one’s desires. He could have guessed. But, there’s no frustration that digs into the full of him. There is no ridicule. It’s only — ]
Akira, [ he starts again, his name like a worried stone in his mouth. He knows the shape of it intimately, the rounded edges of it — light and sweet against his tongue. Even if his voice frays in ways rawer than tender around the effort it takes to draw air into his lungs, Akira’s trepidation signals the same actions it always does. He’d always been there to ground Akira, assure him, as much as Akira had assured Ryo in ways he could not and still cannot allow himself to understand.
But, that shudder has stoked something hungry and silent in him — the cool of his exterior there, but thawing underneath. He can’t stem the inevitable way it will fissure in places, the few and scattered times he’d done this strange in comparison. It’d been a curiosity, an itch. This — he shoves the thought aside, focuses with the remaining restraint he keeps lashed about himself. ]
We'll handle this first, [ he breathes out, his words catching against shorter exhalations — the impression of Akira's form bracketing him in. He feels comfortable beneath him like this, surrounded in the warmth that was distinctly his. Ryo feels out the shape of him with the hand that’s dipped beneath the only fabric left, maps the harder lines of his body and down the musculature of an arm. Ryo's hand, imbued with the heat he'd stolen from him, rests over the one that trails the soft skin of his stomach. The muscles beneath the rough of Akira's palm flutter and clench and Ryo can just make out the tension that threads through him. He curls his fingers beneath the meat of Akira's palm, gives it a directive nudge toward the teeth of the zipper. The hand at Akira’s shoulder lingers, before lifting and lowering to rest against the sheets. He leans up on his elbow then, mindful, presses his lips to the corner of his mouth. Akira smells sharp, heady. Ryo catches the scent of him again, similar and dissimilar to the Akira he’d always known as he breathes in, slow and thin and steadying. He can feel the material of his jumpsuit dip, the way it pools off one shoulder to follow to the crook of the elbow he rests on. This close, he can see the desperation that fans through Akira like a flame, that rests in his expression like a familiar scripture, something different in the way that an encounter with Akira impacts him. It scrapes against the surface of all that Ryo is like the pale shell of the moon. He lowers the lift of his knees, but keeps their legs tangled – his ankle strokes down the back of his calf. He feels the tension here too and he doesn’t think at all as he kisses him once and fleetingly, the hand that guides Akira’s dipping beneath what little the fabric of his jumpsuit has left to hide. He leaves it against the hotter skin of his hip. It’s an invitation to make good on what he says, what he suggests. ]
It's okay, [ he leaves against Akira's skin. I have you, is there too, a muted thing that curls between them as he pulls back just enough to see him. The weight of Akira’s gaze is almost sears him in how much it desires and the hand that had once instructed lifting. His fingers, once so cool, trace the newer angles of Akira’s face. Like this, Ryo can almost see him clearly in the dark and he takes a breath, primal impulse bearing down against logical process like a rock thrown offshore. Eventually, even that would be worn away beneath the unwavering heat that’s hooked into his gut. Arousal is a long process, a constellation of fragmented sentences and chemicals strung together into a complex and instinctual narrative. What Ryo feels now is just that, an evolutionary weave and a biological imperative – encoded in the language his genetics has left. That constancy and certainty steadies him, though the proclamation Akira had issued hums through him like a current, like the barometric dip of atmospheric pressure before a storm comes it. Ryo aches in a way that’s bone deep and painful, his heartrate stuttering with each smaller move Akira makes, the evidence of his want in the way Akira speaks to him, presses close to him. Ryo shifts beneath him, a short and shivering stretch that comes as reflex. ] Once that's off, lie down on your side. [ His eyes lid against the way he presses his own hip into the manipulated curve of Akira’s palm. ] Face me.
[ It will have to do for now, he knows. Until he can tell him of anything else, it's better to start without further wait. ]
Don't be afraid to touch me, [ he continues in a murmur. The hand that frames Akira’s face snakes downward in demonstration, down along the column of his throat, along the front of his chest. It rests briefly there, feeling the pace of Akira’s heart beneath his skin. Fast, like his own, with the steady stream of adrenaline. It must be as loud, he knows, in Akira’s ears. It must be just as unbearable to strain to hear over, but — Ryo’s hand continues to firmer plain of his abs, sweeps over the hardness of muscle there with a sort of reverence for what they’ve made of him. ] You're familiar with yourself, aren't you? [ Ryo’s hand isn’t shy, doesn’t halt with uncertainty. Akira had asked, plainly and openly. And Ryo had translated it, in the markers of language Akira’s body and voice left across his own.
It’s a narrow space to work with, the back of his own hand brushing up against himself as much as Akira. He swallows an immediate hitch of breath, the smooth of his palm molding with gentle conviction against the press of Akira’s cock against the tight of the briefs he wears. His fingers drag against the thick of its outline, the pad of his thumb angled to press just beneath the head. He swallows reflexively, the pink of his tongue touching against the corner of his own mouth. ] Treat me like that, [ he says, his voice more a singular bloom of breath. He doesn’t look away, his eyes trained on where he knows Akira’s must be. He keeps his own body still, strokes Akira once and slow through the scant material. The corners of his lips catch against something softer, almost indiscernible in the dim and against the shallows of his inhalations, exhalations. ] I trust you.
[ And he does. He always has. Since the moment he’d pulled his cold body to him, wrapped his arms around the frame that had been without touch for as long as Ryo could recall. Akira had always been careful, had never intruded. He’d waited for Ryo, with his hand outstretched. He’d closed so many distances, even if Ryo could not fully read the scope and depth of it. Even if he could not admit to himself the entirety of it, a small and fragile thing a splinter between his ribs, angled at his heart.
I trust you. ]