[ For Ryo's part, he's been situated on the couch for the better part of an hour. It isn't difficult to hear Akira come in, even with the song that thrums now in the background. Somehow, he's managed to find some way to work on some minor details on his communicator when Akira sweeps in. What he's greeted to is usual, for the main part, sans Ryo shutting off his device and setting it on the table alongside his coat (which was similarly discarded some time ago). He doesn't budge as Akira looks him over, but he does lift a pale hand to accept what he's brought him. His mouth tips up in subtle degrees. ]
I'm fine, [ he starts, setting the medkit on his lap. His fingers easily find the latch and he pops the lid open, his eyes scanning through the full of its contents. Whatever it is he's looking for, he finds without too much struggle after a moment. It's a relatively light package, it turns out, sealed on all ends. He extends it to him once he closes back up the rig and places it aside, the blue of his eyes almost brighter beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. ] We should be searching for these.
[ Visual stimuli was the best methodology to use for most individuals when teaching something relatively new. Here's no real exception. ]
[He's been doing his best to drown out the music that's started playing. As it had basically just started today, it wasn't wearing too badly on his nerves; it was just annoying at times, especially when the music started to be kinda bad. It certainly felt easier to drown out when he was with Ryo, as easy as it was for him to focus on him entirely. He blinks, a little confused, when he sets aside his communicator; that wasn't necessarily normal for him. There's a reason that not being able to keep it inside the bottom bunk fort was one of the rules. He glances back up at him, brow furrowing as he watches Ryo search within the kit for something — something which he produces, after assuring Akira that his concerns were unfounded.
Now it's Akira's turn to study whatever it was, eyes squinting as he puzzled out the words. Then he goes still, gaze flicking back upwards to lock with Ryo's, easily picking out the gleam in them.
There's a marked change in the energy, an obvious shift from the more casual cadence that their conversation had previously had. This type of energy was something he'd become much more familiar over the last few weeks. He wills himself to keep his composure.
He clears his throat, gruff in his chest.] Is, uh, that stuff gonna work? [A similar gleam is beginning to make itself noticeable in his own eyes, though he's always one to be cautious, as careful as he tends to (at least initially) be.] I mean, it can't be intended for that. [Is it??]
[ Pauses were often filled with a flood of unanswered questions.
More often than not, they shape themselves in the spaces within it and Akira utilizes them just the same. Ryo anticipates them and knows them, just as Akira will often know his. There's benefits to knowing another individual for as long as one has. Knowing what to say before the other says it is perhaps one. He's patient as Akira reaches his own conclusions. Ryo had talked about this not too long ago, after all. There were certain perks to having a curious mind and an experimental touch. Sometimes. ]
Originally, the conventional products were derived from their medical counterparts, [ he hums. He holds out his hand to accept the packet back, palm upturned. His fingers curl loose and gentle, natural. Tension banks itself as always, like rising water against the shore. Ryo stands at the edge and does not blink as he steps in against the current, gives it passage broad enough to brush against his skin. The corners of his eyes crinkle, only just, with an approval both measured and not. Akira was a quick study where it counted and where it interested him, even if the implication was barely one. And it is that fact that serves them both. ]
It's perfectly safe to use, [ he continues, his voice as steady as it always is. Beyond him, the steady rift of another hit plays. He doesn't seem to hear it, against the way Akira's eyes light up, both tentative and hopeful. ] They may not advertise it, but doctors have no issue clarifying personal applications when asked.
[ In other words, he's absolutely positive. He knows that Akira doesn't doubt his judgement here necessarily, but there's always been that spot that worries after him. That concern and consideration had marked their interactions from the moment they'd met, tessellated the full of their relationship. This is another stone laid in the foundation, slotted neatly with the rest. Ryo tips his head up to meet his gaze more readily, but there's an ask in the way he does. It doesn't vocalize itself, but it needn't really. Even still, the words come. ]
It's unlikely others have thought of it. [ Not many people would, after all. Ryo has a way of thinking beyond strict boxes and beyond paths that typically would not permit them to arrive at these metaphorical doors. He isn't saying to get more, but he may be supplying the motivation. He knows Akira as well as he knows him. ]
[Truth be told, they could have skipped this step — him asking a question that Ryo not only certainly knew the answer to but had also implemented in his planning. It was all a foregone conclusion: he would provide Akira with a section of knowledge he had previously been ignorant of (and which would sometimes fall right back out of his brain within a few days), Akira would believe him, and then he would hurry on his way to do whatever had been suggested.
But he still goes through these steps, reminiscent of days where Ryo had been the boundless source of information the internet would one day provide, though he had done so even before that online infrastructure had even spread to Japan. Akira was still a partial Luddite, never having had much aptitude with technology, vastly preferring to rely on the living resources on hand he knew he could depend upon.
He rumbles in recognition as he returns the tube back to Ryo, perfectly cognizant of the artful curve of his fingers, the way they mete out a lingering pace. He blinks, willing himself not to get too distracted.]
Mm. Okay.
[And that's it. It's all he needed to hear.
Though... what Ryo continues with is of vital importance as well. Akira is quiet, the energy about his body growing still in a nearly predatory sense, all as the implied meaning slowly works its way through his brain. The glint returns to his eyes in renewed vigor, but it's in a different tone this time — the gleam of opportunism.
Akira was a magnanimous soul, but... surely this was pretty low on the totem pole of things people would get pissed if they helped themselves to, right? Surely people would get more pissed at how much liquor they still had stashed in their kitchen cabinets.
Yeah, that's gotta be right. So he has no real reason to feel bad about this. Not as the smile slowly sketches its way across his angular features, as he gives a sharp nod to Ryo and says, simply,] I'll be back, [before turning and heading out the door once more.
Because he was a man on a mission now, and there were plenty more vacant rooms left than just the one he had searched out.]
[ There had always been something peculiar in Ryo.
For one who was marked once to be afraid, he'd circled the periphery of the metaphorical lion's den more times than could be counted. Each burst of adrenaline, each death-defying feat — the rush crackling over Ryo's skin like brush of tinder to an open flame —, Ryo found himself in contradictory delight of it. For some, the chemical cocktail was potent. For some, it was addictive. For Ryo, it was magnetism. A persistent l'appel du vide, tempered by the stability Akira's hands could provide. And yet, for anyone else at all, the predatory quiet that melds into Akira's frame should bring to him more than the slowest shiver, one that blooms from the base of his spine and climbs. The blue of his eyes, in the advent of fight or flight, go warm and dark.
Ryo, in all that has happened, is used to being hunted. He is used to the beat of wings in the dark, the slick of ichor beneath his heels. He is used to the saliva, the hot and putrid breath. He is used to scent of beasts smeared across the full of him.
Ryo, however, is new to being willing prey.
He accepts the packet back with a small nod of his own, the confirmation that he's noted and counts on Akira's understanding of what he asks. The restraint that Akira occupies is narrow and so he only toes it, his hand returning to rest against his lap as Akira listens to the full of his instruction, adheres to it with no more than a promise to be back.
For Ryo, that absence allows him time to assess. Brief though it may be, Akira's determination will inevitably be stalled in part by the search. Even Ryo, who could match his persistence, would have found it difficult to track down all that might be available to them (though he had several guesses as to where a kit could be hidden).
Even so, more people would surely grow agitated with the fact that Ryo's stockpiled any number of things over raiding the medical kits. He'd long ago gathered spare sheets and blankets, a number of pillows — water, alcohol, and food that did not seem to degrade no matter its base formula. There were a number of other objects too, ranging from the seemingly mundane to the crucial, but there was no need to discriminate. When left to a limited overall supply, Ryo had no trust in others not to snap up more than their fair share. And besides, medical lubricant wasn't a necessity per se — not when any other items would be equally as serviceable. There was no need to worry about it, especially with the possibility of opening inaccessible rooms underway.
And there was really no need to worry about everything else either, as far as Ryo was concerned. He tucks the packet in his front pocket of his jeans and rises from his spot on the couch, clearing his coat and communicator from the table before him with enough consideration to return it to the wardrobe (before he forgets). He settles on the edge of the double bed and turns the communicator back on for the moment, but it is largely aimless and mostly precautionary. If Akira needs him, Ryo has him at hand as he always does.
[Where Ryo is so often content to sit in the room, tapping away at the communicator, Akira is far more content to wander. And so he does more often than not, cutting familiar paths through the station, keeping a keen and wary eye on what changed and what remained the same, which spaces went vacant or suddenly became occupied. It's perfunctory not only to sate his boredom but also to keep his mental maps updated, providing him with what limited tactical information he found useful. If he needed to get from one place to another in this station, he knew he could do so as fast as possible. But with certain spaces unlocking and more becoming available to them, he doesn't rest on informational laurels, applying himself to the little that stood out to him as important to know.
It helps him today, because he remembers which rooms were unoccupied and still fairly well-stocked, which might still hold the medical kits that were distributed to nearly all of them. It takes time, winding through the rooms and corridors, but he ends up with what he thinks is a respectable collection; sure as hell not something that was gonna last, but a good start. He thinks? He actually has no fucking clue. He hopes so, anyway.
He isn't sure how long he's been gone when he returns to the room. Probably over half an hour. The door hisses open and then closed, locking automatically; he slips off his shoes, padding near-silent over the floor of the living space. Ryo isn't in this room, which has to mean... He starts to move a little bit quicker, a little bit more fluid, passing past the kitchen toward the doorway to the bedroom.
And when he passes through that doorway, he moves much quicker.
To Ryo, looking up from his communicator, he's little more than a dark blur, and then he's a physicality: one palm pressed against his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed, and the other snaking around his back to give him leverage enough to move him further toward the middle of it. He looms over him supported by his left hand splayed against the sheets by Ryo's head, his knees pinning on either side of the other guy's. His right hand slowly strays to the one equipped by the communicator, lowering it with a gentle yet insistent force.]
You wanna put that away, before I throw it somewhere.
[He knows the damn thing is important to Ryo, and he respects that, but there's times and places, and Akira is very stringent about those particular rules.
Especially given certain circumstances. He lowers himself slightly, nuzzling into the soft curve beneath the line of Ryo's jaw, hot to the touch as he presses his lips there but also soft, measured, like a whispered conversation being had specifically to avoid attention.
Of course he hears him when Akira comes in. Of course he hears him when he toes off his shoes. But, it's the sudden silence that follows that makes him lift his head. The quiet Akira's body had acquired was beyond even his, a predatory evolution in bone and flesh. Where Ryo would be found, Akira blends into the dim. Even contrasted with the ink dark of first, cautious explorations — Ryo's unable to process the speed and dexterity that greets him.
It isn't the first time he's been approached so quickly, but it is perhaps the first time in this context. His body is pushed back against the bed before he has time to register it, the slight bounce mitigated by the constant pressure of Akira's hand as he leans in. He yelps Akira's name, or perhaps a close approximation, as he's hauled to the middle of the bed.
And then, that's something by itself.
There's a soft, hitched sound that climbs up to his lips, his fingers falling slack against the communicator before Akira even nudges it down. His skin prickles with a mixture between arousal and irritation — the former winning out as heat blooms through him like the break of surf, touches at the pale of his cheeks. The blue of his eyes flickers as he almost fumbles with the stupid device, uncharacteristic and unsteady, and drops or perhaps skids the thing onto the nightstand. It's a difficult task, one that's just barely accomplished with the simultaneous tipping up of his head. It allows Akira all the access he could possibly request, even with the high of his shirt's collar. ]
We'd lose every bit of information, [ he breathes, though the flatter tonality he'd typically adopt thins under the press of Akira's lips, the way he brackets him. He shifts beneath the settling of his weight, breathes in. He knows Akira would never, at least on purpose. He knows Akira knows he's not foolish enough to have all that in one place. He knows Akira might do more-or-less what Ryo just did, his larger fingers flubbing a touch more on the placement. It reflects in the ease of Ryo's body, the open way he welcomes him.
And Ryo? Ryo has never been shy about what to do with his hands. They don't struggle for purchase, but direct themselves with purpose. One finds the hem of Akira's shirt, skirts beneath to bring the flat of his palm over the broad of Akira's back, skims the pads of his fingers down ridge of his spine. Akira's always been so warm and since Amon, the descriptor has only been doubly accurate. A being of fire and blood, he has no other option, but to thaw beneath the bright of his attention. But, human biology had always been a predictable and patterned thing — the flush of adrenaline, the thrumming of the heart. He presses his free fingers into the dark of Akira's hair, brushes through it while coaxing him in nearer than he is. He takes his command of quick and echoes it with a translucent invitation, a playful and goading edge.
[Had he wanted to leave on his little item gathering mission? Not necessarily. Truth be told, he'd started to feel his blood start to run a little hot ever since the subject was broached, but he'd forced himself into it — not just because the suggestion had felt apparent from Ryo, but also because he felt he needed a moment to gather himself. He can't deny the eagerness he feels, but embedded within it is a shred of concern. Lapses of his presence of mind were not necessarily common, but they had been something that recurred once in a while over the last few weeks, and though he'd never given Ryo any lasting injury, the fact that such a possibility was so close within reach at any given point was something that gnawed at him.
But — Ryo had brought it up, and he never did anything without reason. Akira would just have to keep himself in check and make sure he listened. It'll be fine.
Of course, the worries always seem to melt away in an exponential fashion the closer he gets to him, the heavier the weight of anticipation. It's that bright and fervent excitement, the almost over-eager impulse towards indulgence. He barely even had three fully-formed thoughts pass through his head between entering the quarters and pinning Ryo in the bed, a shiver running along the column of his spine as he picks up on the way the other guy had basically yelped when he'd moved him. Akira's dark eyes search out Ryo's, intent and electric and very slowly calculating, sifting past what appreciation always lies behind the facade of falsified aggravation.
He decides to put the discovery aside for now, satisfied that he'd relegated his communicator to the bedside table, even more so that he'd bared his neck to him. Becoming intimately physical with Ryo for the first time had been one thing, but as time had worn on, it becomes something entirely different — the scent of him in a situation like this is enough to get his blood flowing fast and hot, like molten magma through his veins, eliciting a low ache on an occasional heartbeat. He needs little suggestion. As soon as it was possible he presses closer with the natural insistence of rushing water pursuing lower elevation, stomach and hips running flush with Ryo's. He feels the fingers rake through the locks of his hair, the determined path that the hand finds along the planes of his back. Akira is not a static creature; he is never still, always moving at least a bit with a restless and circuitous energy, so warmed and pleased by the lavished attention. His hands have moved as well, mirroring Ryo's as they find and surpass the hem of his sweater, pushing the fabric up with far less finesse as they span broad across the tender musculature of his stomach, the sharp delineations of his ribs, the planes of his chest. It's all with purpose — to gradually minimize the frustrating barrier and also encourage him to get rid of it for good, though he perhaps sends a mixed message as he mouths — then tongues, fierce and wet and hot — under the ridge of his jaw, up against the thrumming point of his pulse.
He seems to recall Ryo's hushed admonishment entirely too late, a sluggish-sounding laugh catching in his throat, leaning forward to press a messy kiss near his ear, mumbling a low and breathy,] mmhm, [in a clearly sarcastic response, entirely unimpressed by what would have probably been devastating for Ryo to lose.
Akira doesn't really care. He'd break any piece of machinery he'd need to to get to Ryo. That's just how things were.
And he wouldn't stand for a single tiny distraction now that he has him.]
[ He knows. He knows Akira may not have wanted to. He knows that Akira would, if posed the way he posed it. He knows all these little details, Akira's qualms and reservations in these contexts. And Ryo had assured him, quiet and certain in the aftermath. Pain was linked into pleasure, as much as pleasure was linked into pain. For Ryo, they eased at times into one in the same. But, he knows enough that Akira would never do him lasting harm. He knows Akira would never permit it.
And so —
He catches the meat of his own lip between his teeth, inhalation hitching sharp on the tail end as Akira mouths along his jaw, floods him with sensation and stimulation in broad, hot sweeps. It licks at the angles and curves of his body like an arching heat, each suggestion and shiver he feeds to Akira the stoking of something wild. He thinks he might have underestimated how much this alone would entice him, but any thought or care of it is cast aside. He breaks the line of thought like dry wood over the pale of his knee. He'd rather submit himself to be burned than be without it. And, in the end, if Akira would not have torn through all that he could to get to cool of his flesh — Ryo would have torn through to him. No manner of man, machine, or beast would have kept them divided. And, in the advent of all that was this degree of physicality, Akira has seen nothing yet.
Akira is right, of course. He was right to assume that he never did anything without reason behind it. At the end of all things, no human did. It was natural to crave, to need, to manipulate — to use their higher intellect. Ryo, a clever thing, was better at understanding this than others. He was better at getting what he wanted. He was better at presenting himself as a recipient, a party that promised mutual benefit. And for Akira, Ryo knew a deeper motivation. It broke the bounds of himself, flooded between them in a give instead of advantageous take. It had always been that way, despite the shape and context that welled up against their skin. Akira brought out more in Ryo than any before or after him ever did. ]
Akira, [ he sighs, the bloom of his name past his teeth and off his tongue less chastising and more desiring, his own hands leaving the dark of Akira's hair, the musculature of his back. There's a little furrow between his brows, his lips dipping into the smallest of frowns. It's all performative. A half-constructed protest. Akira's learned as well as he has that is all show, one that he wraps himself in. It serves numerous purposes, but the one it plays to now is to encourage his impatience — to bring out the desperate edge of his kisses, the playful teases. It's to bring Akira to press his lips just beneath his ear, rumble out his bare and carefree acknowledgment. It's to let Ryo allow himself a deeper shiver, one that rolls through him like the harsher swells that shatter across shores. He can feel the way he hums, a warmer thunder over skin. ] Let me—
[ The command dissolves across his lips. It doesn't matter, is the fleeting thought. Because, in the scant spaces that Akira affords between their stomachs and their hips, Ryo's hand snakes up and under his own shirt, two fingers hooking over the hem. The draw of material up is liquid, his own palm mapping the path Akira had drawn across his skin. He feels the rapid tempo of his own heart, his advancement paused just beneath his sternum. His chest rises and falls, far less steady and slow. No matter the increasing familiarity, it's small displays like this — clumsy and messy, gentle or rough that digs into every stage of arousal. He knows how he must look right now, as much as Akira looks right now. A tangled web of hormones, chemicals — Ryo stretches under him, languid and long.
He knows how these affairs can go. He feels the vacillation between possibility and potentiality here and his eyes lid, the fingers of his other hand settling in a loose circle about Akira's supporting wrist. ]
Edited (ok, jesus. i forgot a portion of it the first time... lol.) 2018-07-13 23:03 (UTC)
[He learned quickly not to underestimate the sway that this had over him — of Ryo and the context and the electric atmosphere of mutual desire and of everything else. What's more notable for Akira, however, is that it stands apart from even what he deals with with his hybrid existence at its default. That had been something else entirely he had had to slowly unravel, the way that he seemed to naturally intertwine sexuality with violence, and violence with — any number of things. Anger (self-righteous or otherwise), grief, boredom. Though these two factors had certainly existed to him beforehand, they had become undeniably impossible to ignore after he'd gained his body. His path to learning how best to handle it had been a troubled one, marked on both sides with plenty of trial and failure, but he'd thought he'd figured out at least some manner of giving himself the best position for self-control.
But then there's Ryo.
He makes all of that nearly impossible. An intrinsic characteristic of the guy is that he is constantly aware of where the metaphorical line exists, but then he also routinely pushes past it to either make a point or simply demonstrate that he can (or sometimes both). With the way things usually go, Akira knows he has no defenses against this; he is very easy to guide, especially when there is the offered promise of outlet for the sharp imperative of what was incited. He just knows that when the energy which existed between them shifted into this particular tone, there were only a few select outcomes, and he wasn't necessarily to opposed to any of them.
They had never necessarily discussed it with the level of clarity that others might expect, this different permutation that their relationship had taken. He had never asked certain questions he might want the answer to because he had already felt that Ryo wouldn't be able to provide an answer that would feel right to him. It was more than just two friends using one another for a mutually-assured benefit, regardless of how easy that might be to claim. There was a layer down below that artifice that Akira believed he caught glimpses of, but never enough to see the full shape of it. But the longer they were to one another what they were now, the more he felt he could comprehend. There are many things that fray his patience, but in this, he is unhurried, unbothered. Ryo has always been different, requiring a unique sort of handling. In this, he does the same.
Akira's breath leaves him in a noisy rush, the sound of his voice pressed through Ryo's affected tones sweeping like a wave throughout his body, the path similar to the way his hands had moved purposefully along his back. He is constant in his movement, even if it's minute, but there is a noticeable shiver that runs through him at this, lapsing over into his attention drawn from where he had haphazardly placed it (always to the first thing that came to mind). He doesn't like Ryo's hands leaving him, even when it's a necessity. He also — is unsure of this, this sort of game that Ryo seems to play, something that confuses him more than aggravates him. It's a lie so pale and transparent held up to the bright, unwavering light of his marked interest and steady arousal that he questions the usefulness of it, but it's not something he questions, especially when he knows how quickly it falls away. It simply goes to show how well Ryo knows how to engineer from him what he wants: it's a sharp wound in the side of what little patience he has, fanning flames that truthfully didn't need any additional help, planting the seeds for what would be necessary to remove such falsified inhibitions as quickly as possible. It's why he doesn't question it. Perhaps subconsciously Akira understands all of this, knows the reason why he simply plays along with it is because he enjoys the ruthless clarity of intent that it often evokes. Something which only continues to narrow, the full of his body made aware of the shiver running through Ryo below him, causing him to ache against the restraints of their pace.
Let me— and he does, actually sitting up and away from Ryo a short distance as he allows him the space and the time to work the shirt away from him and over his head, and he does this because Akira is doing the same. Though he is far more brusque, two hands at his shirt's hem only a moment before he pulls it off and tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness of the room, returning his attention to where Ryo stands out against the dimness, pale and tense and wanting. The broad, faintly rough span of Akira's hands traces up from the tender planes of his stomach to the delicate construction of his sternum and shoulders all as Akira returns to rest warm and flush against him. He ends up with his forearms settled against the bed, framing Ryo's head, elbows biting divots into the landscape of the mattress above his back. His face looms a few inches over, lips carved into a slow smile, his hands absentmindedly threading through the long waves that his hair was growing out into.
He bends down to kiss him, and there's a silent statement of tender intimacy to it for just a second, but the tone alters quickly as his tongue swipes hot and quick across Ryo's lips, seeking the border of his teeth, the slick of his tongue, the taste of his mouth. Ryo's gambit a few short moments beforehand had paid off: there's an impatience baked into his actions, one which shows its nature the more he sinks into them. The restlessness returns to take up residence along the length of his spine. Perhaps he could have argued to someone else in a different situation that the slight surge and retreat of his body over his, paired with the particular placement and distribution of his weight, that it was accidental or not necessarily thought-out.
But that would be lying, and it's something he's not necessarily great at doing.]
[ Every living thing has played this game since the beginning of time.
Every living thing that has swum or ran or crawled has known what it was to lure and to lust, to want— to want so entirely that the body and mind offered itself in what ways it could, in what ways it needed for pleasure, for control. Imperative. And Ryo, no matter the bright of his mind, knows the chemical interplay that mingles beneath each of his coyer facades. He knows, perhaps, without knowing what they continue for – an unsuited gossamer that softens the blow of what he’s come to know, desire. Before Akira, there had been precious little more than curiosity at all. These explorations had been primitive forays, a chase for the break of endorphins. They’d contained none of the syrupy kisses, the idle unknotting of each other’s hair. They’d not been nearly so attentive, so considerate. They’d been nothing at all, but Akira knows him. And Akira sees flickers of things that even Ryo cannot grasp, cannot piece apart with teeth and tongue and lips to form a language that he can spin, caress into shapes both soothing and direct. All that he knows is that whatever it is, it is sharp and hot and delicate – a fragile and fiery thing, something that hurts all the more each time he glances up against it. But, Akira cradles that, carries that. He coaxes it, with the broad brush of his palms, the way they traverse the plains of his body as though he were a tapestry. Akira follows each threaded path to what he’s long learned he’ll get if he follows the weave of his instincts.
Yet, no matter how much Ryo’s body tunes itself to Akira’s touch, Ryo can’t answer or name what Akira might once or still crave any more than Akira can. He can’t shape what he says is unknown to him, but what floods into his system like the first glimpse of sun, warming him as Akira warms him, heedless of how far and away he’d always remained from everything, from anyone.
Except him.
Akira had long ago pulled Ryo into his gravity. He’d long ago captivated Ryo, moored Ryo to him like the Earth mooring the moon to itself. But, for all that the Earth kept it near, it could only reflect what light it was given. It could only give what it had coveted. Unlike the Earth, it had never brimmed with life, with greenery.
But, Akira does. And Akira spreads heat through the cool of him, kindles the complex constructions of dopamine, norepinephrine. It makes his palms flush with it as he feels the crackle of arousal slip through the seams, press him just as well to the bed as Akira can. His eyes lid against the temporary sting of separation, though with each inch of skin given and each inch of skin shared – the way Akira barely waits for him to toss his own shirt somewhere – something like relief follows the moment he can lay his hands upon him again.
And it is something that exposes itself in the way the fingers of one hand travel the shallow of valleys between the lay of ribs, press along the low of Akira’s back, firm and fixed. It’s something that reveals itself in the way the fingers of the other wind into the dark of Akira’s hair, knot loose and hold with all the intimacy that’s usually there, colored with the minor pressure he exerts there. For Ryo, he knows what the position brings him. He knows it the moment Akira settles back over him, bracketed by the musculature of his arms. He knows as he combs through the length of Ryo’s hair, so close that he can feel each inhalation. Exhalation.
He knows fully, the moment Akira smiles at him. And Ryo hums, low and pleased in his chest as Akira finally dips down to kiss him.
There’s opportunities allotted and afforded in the proximity of their hips. Ryo understands this as he cants his, fleeting and subtle, up into the tidal movement of Akira’s body above him – parts his lips around the low murmur of sound, its meaning lost willingly against the prospect of teeth and tongue. Akira may not be good at lying, but that earnestness is part and parcel of what has Ryo here, in this spot. It is part of what has Ryo below him, receptive and warm. It is part of what has always kept Ryo beside him and even here, beyond the context of late wanderings by the shore, it is what has Ryo tugging him in close – pulling him in close, one leg hooking behind his own.
Never let it be said that Ryo has no concept of showing what it is he wants. ]
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I'm fine, [ he starts, setting the medkit on his lap. His fingers easily find the latch and he pops the lid open, his eyes scanning through the full of its contents. Whatever it is he's looking for, he finds without too much struggle after a moment. It's a relatively light package, it turns out, sealed on all ends. He extends it to him once he closes back up the rig and places it aside, the blue of his eyes almost brighter beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. ] We should be searching for these.
[ Visual stimuli was the best methodology to use for most individuals when teaching something relatively new. Here's no real exception. ]
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Now it's Akira's turn to study whatever it was, eyes squinting as he puzzled out the words. Then he goes still, gaze flicking back upwards to lock with Ryo's, easily picking out the gleam in them.
There's a marked change in the energy, an obvious shift from the more casual cadence that their conversation had previously had. This type of energy was something he'd become much more familiar over the last few weeks. He wills himself to keep his composure.
He clears his throat, gruff in his chest.] Is, uh, that stuff gonna work? [A similar gleam is beginning to make itself noticeable in his own eyes, though he's always one to be cautious, as careful as he tends to (at least initially) be.] I mean, it can't be intended for that. [Is it??]
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More often than not, they shape themselves in the spaces within it and Akira utilizes them just the same. Ryo anticipates them and knows them, just as Akira will often know his. There's benefits to knowing another individual for as long as one has. Knowing what to say before the other says it is perhaps one. He's patient as Akira reaches his own conclusions. Ryo had talked about this not too long ago, after all. There were certain perks to having a curious mind and an experimental touch. Sometimes. ]
Originally, the conventional products were derived from their medical counterparts, [ he hums. He holds out his hand to accept the packet back, palm upturned. His fingers curl loose and gentle, natural. Tension banks itself as always, like rising water against the shore. Ryo stands at the edge and does not blink as he steps in against the current, gives it passage broad enough to brush against his skin. The corners of his eyes crinkle, only just, with an approval both measured and not. Akira was a quick study where it counted and where it interested him, even if the implication was barely one. And it is that fact that serves them both. ]
It's perfectly safe to use, [ he continues, his voice as steady as it always is. Beyond him, the steady rift of another hit plays. He doesn't seem to hear it, against the way Akira's eyes light up, both tentative and hopeful. ] They may not advertise it, but doctors have no issue clarifying personal applications when asked.
[ In other words, he's absolutely positive. He knows that Akira doesn't doubt his judgement here necessarily, but there's always been that spot that worries after him. That concern and consideration had marked their interactions from the moment they'd met, tessellated the full of their relationship. This is another stone laid in the foundation, slotted neatly with the rest. Ryo tips his head up to meet his gaze more readily, but there's an ask in the way he does. It doesn't vocalize itself, but it needn't really. Even still, the words come. ]
It's unlikely others have thought of it. [ Not many people would, after all. Ryo has a way of thinking beyond strict boxes and beyond paths that typically would not permit them to arrive at these metaphorical doors. He isn't saying to get more, but he may be supplying the motivation. He knows Akira as well as he knows him. ]
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But he still goes through these steps, reminiscent of days where Ryo had been the boundless source of information the internet would one day provide, though he had done so even before that online infrastructure had even spread to Japan. Akira was still a partial Luddite, never having had much aptitude with technology, vastly preferring to rely on the living resources on hand he knew he could depend upon.
He rumbles in recognition as he returns the tube back to Ryo, perfectly cognizant of the artful curve of his fingers, the way they mete out a lingering pace. He blinks, willing himself not to get too distracted.]
Mm. Okay.
[And that's it. It's all he needed to hear.
Though... what Ryo continues with is of vital importance as well. Akira is quiet, the energy about his body growing still in a nearly predatory sense, all as the implied meaning slowly works its way through his brain. The glint returns to his eyes in renewed vigor, but it's in a different tone this time — the gleam of opportunism.
Akira was a magnanimous soul, but... surely this was pretty low on the totem pole of things people would get pissed if they helped themselves to, right? Surely people would get more pissed at how much liquor they still had stashed in their kitchen cabinets.
Yeah, that's gotta be right. So he has no real reason to feel bad about this. Not as the smile slowly sketches its way across his angular features, as he gives a sharp nod to Ryo and says, simply,] I'll be back, [before turning and heading out the door once more.
Because he was a man on a mission now, and there were plenty more vacant rooms left than just the one he had searched out.]
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For one who was marked once to be afraid, he'd circled the periphery of the metaphorical lion's den more times than could be counted. Each burst of adrenaline, each death-defying feat — the rush crackling over Ryo's skin like brush of tinder to an open flame —, Ryo found himself in contradictory delight of it. For some, the chemical cocktail was potent. For some, it was addictive. For Ryo, it was magnetism. A persistent l'appel du vide, tempered by the stability Akira's hands could provide. And yet, for anyone else at all, the predatory quiet that melds into Akira's frame should bring to him more than the slowest shiver, one that blooms from the base of his spine and climbs. The blue of his eyes, in the advent of fight or flight, go warm and dark.
Ryo, in all that has happened, is used to being hunted. He is used to the beat of wings in the dark, the slick of ichor beneath his heels. He is used to the saliva, the hot and putrid breath. He is used to scent of beasts smeared across the full of him.
Ryo, however, is new to being willing prey.
He accepts the packet back with a small nod of his own, the confirmation that he's noted and counts on Akira's understanding of what he asks. The restraint that Akira occupies is narrow and so he only toes it, his hand returning to rest against his lap as Akira listens to the full of his instruction, adheres to it with no more than a promise to be back.
For Ryo, that absence allows him time to assess. Brief though it may be, Akira's determination will inevitably be stalled in part by the search. Even Ryo, who could match his persistence, would have found it difficult to track down all that might be available to them (though he had several guesses as to where a kit could be hidden).
Even so, more people would surely grow agitated with the fact that Ryo's stockpiled any number of things over raiding the medical kits. He'd long ago gathered spare sheets and blankets, a number of pillows — water, alcohol, and food that did not seem to degrade no matter its base formula. There were a number of other objects too, ranging from the seemingly mundane to the crucial, but there was no need to discriminate. When left to a limited overall supply, Ryo had no trust in others not to snap up more than their fair share. And besides, medical lubricant wasn't a necessity per se — not when any other items would be equally as serviceable. There was no need to worry about it, especially with the possibility of opening inaccessible rooms underway.
And there was really no need to worry about everything else either, as far as Ryo was concerned. He tucks the packet in his front pocket of his jeans and rises from his spot on the couch, clearing his coat and communicator from the table before him with enough consideration to return it to the wardrobe (before he forgets). He settles on the edge of the double bed and turns the communicator back on for the moment, but it is largely aimless and mostly precautionary. If Akira needs him, Ryo has him at hand as he always does.
He doubts that'll be the case. ]
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It helps him today, because he remembers which rooms were unoccupied and still fairly well-stocked, which might still hold the medical kits that were distributed to nearly all of them. It takes time, winding through the rooms and corridors, but he ends up with what he thinks is a respectable collection; sure as hell not something that was gonna last, but a good start. He thinks? He actually has no fucking clue. He hopes so, anyway.
He isn't sure how long he's been gone when he returns to the room. Probably over half an hour. The door hisses open and then closed, locking automatically; he slips off his shoes, padding near-silent over the floor of the living space. Ryo isn't in this room, which has to mean... He starts to move a little bit quicker, a little bit more fluid, passing past the kitchen toward the doorway to the bedroom.
And when he passes through that doorway, he moves much quicker.
To Ryo, looking up from his communicator, he's little more than a dark blur, and then he's a physicality: one palm pressed against his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed, and the other snaking around his back to give him leverage enough to move him further toward the middle of it. He looms over him supported by his left hand splayed against the sheets by Ryo's head, his knees pinning on either side of the other guy's. His right hand slowly strays to the one equipped by the communicator, lowering it with a gentle yet insistent force.]
You wanna put that away, before I throw it somewhere.
[He knows the damn thing is important to Ryo, and he respects that, but there's times and places, and Akira is very stringent about those particular rules.
Especially given certain circumstances. He lowers himself slightly, nuzzling into the soft curve beneath the line of Ryo's jaw, hot to the touch as he presses his lips there but also soft, measured, like a whispered conversation being had specifically to avoid attention.
Quick, it implies.]
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Of course he hears him when Akira comes in. Of course he hears him when he toes off his shoes. But, it's the sudden silence that follows that makes him lift his head. The quiet Akira's body had acquired was beyond even his, a predatory evolution in bone and flesh. Where Ryo would be found, Akira blends into the dim. Even contrasted with the ink dark of first, cautious explorations — Ryo's unable to process the speed and dexterity that greets him.
It isn't the first time he's been approached so quickly, but it is perhaps the first time in this context. His body is pushed back against the bed before he has time to register it, the slight bounce mitigated by the constant pressure of Akira's hand as he leans in. He yelps Akira's name, or perhaps a close approximation, as he's hauled to the middle of the bed.
And then, that's something by itself.
There's a soft, hitched sound that climbs up to his lips, his fingers falling slack against the communicator before Akira even nudges it down. His skin prickles with a mixture between arousal and irritation — the former winning out as heat blooms through him like the break of surf, touches at the pale of his cheeks. The blue of his eyes flickers as he almost fumbles with the stupid device, uncharacteristic and unsteady, and drops or perhaps skids the thing onto the nightstand. It's a difficult task, one that's just barely accomplished with the simultaneous tipping up of his head. It allows Akira all the access he could possibly request, even with the high of his shirt's collar. ]
We'd lose every bit of information, [ he breathes, though the flatter tonality he'd typically adopt thins under the press of Akira's lips, the way he brackets him. He shifts beneath the settling of his weight, breathes in. He knows Akira would never, at least on purpose. He knows Akira knows he's not foolish enough to have all that in one place. He knows Akira might do more-or-less what Ryo just did, his larger fingers flubbing a touch more on the placement. It reflects in the ease of Ryo's body, the open way he welcomes him.
And Ryo? Ryo has never been shy about what to do with his hands. They don't struggle for purchase, but direct themselves with purpose. One finds the hem of Akira's shirt, skirts beneath to bring the flat of his palm over the broad of Akira's back, skims the pads of his fingers down ridge of his spine. Akira's always been so warm and since Amon, the descriptor has only been doubly accurate. A being of fire and blood, he has no other option, but to thaw beneath the bright of his attention. But, human biology had always been a predictable and patterned thing — the flush of adrenaline, the thrumming of the heart. He presses his free fingers into the dark of Akira's hair, brushes through it while coaxing him in nearer than he is. He takes his command of quick and echoes it with a translucent invitation, a playful and goading edge.
Then hurry up. ]
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But — Ryo had brought it up, and he never did anything without reason. Akira would just have to keep himself in check and make sure he listened. It'll be fine.
Of course, the worries always seem to melt away in an exponential fashion the closer he gets to him, the heavier the weight of anticipation. It's that bright and fervent excitement, the almost over-eager impulse towards indulgence. He barely even had three fully-formed thoughts pass through his head between entering the quarters and pinning Ryo in the bed, a shiver running along the column of his spine as he picks up on the way the other guy had basically yelped when he'd moved him. Akira's dark eyes search out Ryo's, intent and electric and very slowly calculating, sifting past what appreciation always lies behind the facade of falsified aggravation.
He decides to put the discovery aside for now, satisfied that he'd relegated his communicator to the bedside table, even more so that he'd bared his neck to him. Becoming intimately physical with Ryo for the first time had been one thing, but as time had worn on, it becomes something entirely different — the scent of him in a situation like this is enough to get his blood flowing fast and hot, like molten magma through his veins, eliciting a low ache on an occasional heartbeat. He needs little suggestion. As soon as it was possible he presses closer with the natural insistence of rushing water pursuing lower elevation, stomach and hips running flush with Ryo's. He feels the fingers rake through the locks of his hair, the determined path that the hand finds along the planes of his back. Akira is not a static creature; he is never still, always moving at least a bit with a restless and circuitous energy, so warmed and pleased by the lavished attention. His hands have moved as well, mirroring Ryo's as they find and surpass the hem of his sweater, pushing the fabric up with far less finesse as they span broad across the tender musculature of his stomach, the sharp delineations of his ribs, the planes of his chest. It's all with purpose — to gradually minimize the frustrating barrier and also encourage him to get rid of it for good, though he perhaps sends a mixed message as he mouths — then tongues, fierce and wet and hot — under the ridge of his jaw, up against the thrumming point of his pulse.
He seems to recall Ryo's hushed admonishment entirely too late, a sluggish-sounding laugh catching in his throat, leaning forward to press a messy kiss near his ear, mumbling a low and breathy,] mmhm, [in a clearly sarcastic response, entirely unimpressed by what would have probably been devastating for Ryo to lose.
Akira doesn't really care. He'd break any piece of machinery he'd need to to get to Ryo. That's just how things were.
And he wouldn't stand for a single tiny distraction now that he has him.]
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And so —
He catches the meat of his own lip between his teeth, inhalation hitching sharp on the tail end as Akira mouths along his jaw, floods him with sensation and stimulation in broad, hot sweeps. It licks at the angles and curves of his body like an arching heat, each suggestion and shiver he feeds to Akira the stoking of something wild. He thinks he might have underestimated how much this alone would entice him, but any thought or care of it is cast aside. He breaks the line of thought like dry wood over the pale of his knee. He'd rather submit himself to be burned than be without it. And, in the end, if Akira would not have torn through all that he could to get to cool of his flesh — Ryo would have torn through to him. No manner of man, machine, or beast would have kept them divided. And, in the advent of all that was this degree of physicality, Akira has seen nothing yet.
Akira is right, of course. He was right to assume that he never did anything without reason behind it. At the end of all things, no human did. It was natural to crave, to need, to manipulate — to use their higher intellect. Ryo, a clever thing, was better at understanding this than others. He was better at getting what he wanted. He was better at presenting himself as a recipient, a party that promised mutual benefit. And for Akira, Ryo knew a deeper motivation. It broke the bounds of himself, flooded between them in a give instead of advantageous take. It had always been that way, despite the shape and context that welled up against their skin. Akira brought out more in Ryo than any before or after him ever did. ]
Akira, [ he sighs, the bloom of his name past his teeth and off his tongue less chastising and more desiring, his own hands leaving the dark of Akira's hair, the musculature of his back. There's a little furrow between his brows, his lips dipping into the smallest of frowns. It's all performative. A half-constructed protest. Akira's learned as well as he has that is all show, one that he wraps himself in. It serves numerous purposes, but the one it plays to now is to encourage his impatience — to bring out the desperate edge of his kisses, the playful teases. It's to bring Akira to press his lips just beneath his ear, rumble out his bare and carefree acknowledgment. It's to let Ryo allow himself a deeper shiver, one that rolls through him like the harsher swells that shatter across shores. He can feel the way he hums, a warmer thunder over skin. ] Let me—
[ The command dissolves across his lips. It doesn't matter, is the fleeting thought. Because, in the scant spaces that Akira affords between their stomachs and their hips, Ryo's hand snakes up and under his own shirt, two fingers hooking over the hem. The draw of material up is liquid, his own palm mapping the path Akira had drawn across his skin. He feels the rapid tempo of his own heart, his advancement paused just beneath his sternum. His chest rises and falls, far less steady and slow. No matter the increasing familiarity, it's small displays like this — clumsy and messy, gentle or rough that digs into every stage of arousal. He knows how he must look right now, as much as Akira looks right now. A tangled web of hormones, chemicals — Ryo stretches under him, languid and long.
He knows how these affairs can go. He feels the vacillation between possibility and potentiality here and his eyes lid, the fingers of his other hand settling in a loose circle about Akira's supporting wrist. ]
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But then there's Ryo.
He makes all of that nearly impossible. An intrinsic characteristic of the guy is that he is constantly aware of where the metaphorical line exists, but then he also routinely pushes past it to either make a point or simply demonstrate that he can (or sometimes both). With the way things usually go, Akira knows he has no defenses against this; he is very easy to guide, especially when there is the offered promise of outlet for the sharp imperative of what was incited. He just knows that when the energy which existed between them shifted into this particular tone, there were only a few select outcomes, and he wasn't necessarily to opposed to any of them.
They had never necessarily discussed it with the level of clarity that others might expect, this different permutation that their relationship had taken. He had never asked certain questions he might want the answer to because he had already felt that Ryo wouldn't be able to provide an answer that would feel right to him. It was more than just two friends using one another for a mutually-assured benefit, regardless of how easy that might be to claim. There was a layer down below that artifice that Akira believed he caught glimpses of, but never enough to see the full shape of it. But the longer they were to one another what they were now, the more he felt he could comprehend. There are many things that fray his patience, but in this, he is unhurried, unbothered. Ryo has always been different, requiring a unique sort of handling. In this, he does the same.
Akira's breath leaves him in a noisy rush, the sound of his voice pressed through Ryo's affected tones sweeping like a wave throughout his body, the path similar to the way his hands had moved purposefully along his back. He is constant in his movement, even if it's minute, but there is a noticeable shiver that runs through him at this, lapsing over into his attention drawn from where he had haphazardly placed it (always to the first thing that came to mind). He doesn't like Ryo's hands leaving him, even when it's a necessity. He also — is unsure of this, this sort of game that Ryo seems to play, something that confuses him more than aggravates him. It's a lie so pale and transparent held up to the bright, unwavering light of his marked interest and steady arousal that he questions the usefulness of it, but it's not something he questions, especially when he knows how quickly it falls away. It simply goes to show how well Ryo knows how to engineer from him what he wants: it's a sharp wound in the side of what little patience he has, fanning flames that truthfully didn't need any additional help, planting the seeds for what would be necessary to remove such falsified inhibitions as quickly as possible. It's why he doesn't question it. Perhaps subconsciously Akira understands all of this, knows the reason why he simply plays along with it is because he enjoys the ruthless clarity of intent that it often evokes. Something which only continues to narrow, the full of his body made aware of the shiver running through Ryo below him, causing him to ache against the restraints of their pace.
Let me— and he does, actually sitting up and away from Ryo a short distance as he allows him the space and the time to work the shirt away from him and over his head, and he does this because Akira is doing the same. Though he is far more brusque, two hands at his shirt's hem only a moment before he pulls it off and tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness of the room, returning his attention to where Ryo stands out against the dimness, pale and tense and wanting. The broad, faintly rough span of Akira's hands traces up from the tender planes of his stomach to the delicate construction of his sternum and shoulders all as Akira returns to rest warm and flush against him. He ends up with his forearms settled against the bed, framing Ryo's head, elbows biting divots into the landscape of the mattress above his back. His face looms a few inches over, lips carved into a slow smile, his hands absentmindedly threading through the long waves that his hair was growing out into.
He bends down to kiss him, and there's a silent statement of tender intimacy to it for just a second, but the tone alters quickly as his tongue swipes hot and quick across Ryo's lips, seeking the border of his teeth, the slick of his tongue, the taste of his mouth. Ryo's gambit a few short moments beforehand had paid off: there's an impatience baked into his actions, one which shows its nature the more he sinks into them. The restlessness returns to take up residence along the length of his spine. Perhaps he could have argued to someone else in a different situation that the slight surge and retreat of his body over his, paired with the particular placement and distribution of his weight, that it was accidental or not necessarily thought-out.
But that would be lying, and it's something he's not necessarily great at doing.]
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Every living thing that has swum or ran or crawled has known what it was to lure and to lust, to want— to want so entirely that the body and mind offered itself in what ways it could, in what ways it needed for pleasure, for control. Imperative. And Ryo, no matter the bright of his mind, knows the chemical interplay that mingles beneath each of his coyer facades. He knows, perhaps, without knowing what they continue for – an unsuited gossamer that softens the blow of what he’s come to know, desire. Before Akira, there had been precious little more than curiosity at all. These explorations had been primitive forays, a chase for the break of endorphins. They’d contained none of the syrupy kisses, the idle unknotting of each other’s hair. They’d not been nearly so attentive, so considerate. They’d been nothing at all, but Akira knows him. And Akira sees flickers of things that even Ryo cannot grasp, cannot piece apart with teeth and tongue and lips to form a language that he can spin, caress into shapes both soothing and direct. All that he knows is that whatever it is, it is sharp and hot and delicate – a fragile and fiery thing, something that hurts all the more each time he glances up against it. But, Akira cradles that, carries that. He coaxes it, with the broad brush of his palms, the way they traverse the plains of his body as though he were a tapestry. Akira follows each threaded path to what he’s long learned he’ll get if he follows the weave of his instincts.
Yet, no matter how much Ryo’s body tunes itself to Akira’s touch, Ryo can’t answer or name what Akira might once or still crave any more than Akira can. He can’t shape what he says is unknown to him, but what floods into his system like the first glimpse of sun, warming him as Akira warms him, heedless of how far and away he’d always remained from everything, from anyone.
Except him.
Akira had long ago pulled Ryo into his gravity. He’d long ago captivated Ryo, moored Ryo to him like the Earth mooring the moon to itself. But, for all that the Earth kept it near, it could only reflect what light it was given. It could only give what it had coveted. Unlike the Earth, it had never brimmed with life, with greenery.
But, Akira does. And Akira spreads heat through the cool of him, kindles the complex constructions of dopamine, norepinephrine. It makes his palms flush with it as he feels the crackle of arousal slip through the seams, press him just as well to the bed as Akira can. His eyes lid against the temporary sting of separation, though with each inch of skin given and each inch of skin shared – the way Akira barely waits for him to toss his own shirt somewhere – something like relief follows the moment he can lay his hands upon him again.
And it is something that exposes itself in the way the fingers of one hand travel the shallow of valleys between the lay of ribs, press along the low of Akira’s back, firm and fixed. It’s something that reveals itself in the way the fingers of the other wind into the dark of Akira’s hair, knot loose and hold with all the intimacy that’s usually there, colored with the minor pressure he exerts there. For Ryo, he knows what the position brings him. He knows it the moment Akira settles back over him, bracketed by the musculature of his arms. He knows as he combs through the length of Ryo’s hair, so close that he can feel each inhalation. Exhalation.
He knows fully, the moment Akira smiles at him. And Ryo hums, low and pleased in his chest as Akira finally dips down to kiss him.
There’s opportunities allotted and afforded in the proximity of their hips. Ryo understands this as he cants his, fleeting and subtle, up into the tidal movement of Akira’s body above him – parts his lips around the low murmur of sound, its meaning lost willingly against the prospect of teeth and tongue. Akira may not be good at lying, but that earnestness is part and parcel of what has Ryo here, in this spot. It is part of what has Ryo below him, receptive and warm. It is part of what has always kept Ryo beside him and even here, beyond the context of late wanderings by the shore, it is what has Ryo tugging him in close – pulling him in close, one leg hooking behind his own.
Never let it be said that Ryo has no concept of showing what it is he wants. ]