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Since the day they’d met, he thought about Kiryu all the time.
It was innocent at first—not bullying, but a fixation, the schoolyard business of singling someone out and suddenly paying so much more attention to them. It had him wondering why Kiryu was so quiet, why he kept to himself when everyone else went out to play, why he sat alone at breakfast and dinner.
After a week of observation, Nishiki approached, and thereafter his curiosity started to give way to new questions. Why did Kiryu let him get away with dragging him into trouble? Why did he never seem to mind taking half of the blame? Why did he stick around Nishiki even when Nishiki wasn’t dragging him into something?
He soon found out that the answer to his first set of questions lay in the fact that Kiryu was a shy child, with just enough of a grumpy set to his brows that people thought of him as sullen, and the answer to the second set of questions was that around Nishiki, there was something else in Kiryu, a little cutting and mischievous and endearingly goofy. Slowly, the veneer of Kiryu’s innocence lessened, his guard dropping until it was nothing at all, but only around Nishiki.
They grew older together, in fits and starts. Elementary school ended and became junior high, where girls started to look at Kiryu, and Nishiki started to look at girls and Kiryu in a way he didn’t yet understand, and Kiryu looked at no one, at least not in the way they looked at him. He idolized Kazama until Christmas of their thirteenth year, the night Kiryu left the orphanage alone for hours on end and came back more quiet than he ever was, and that was where full-on worship began.
All of them knew Kazama was yakuza, but this tall tale about him pulling a gun to protect Kiryu teetered just this side of too ridiculous for Nishiki to not call bullshit. Still, Kiryu was adamant, and gentle as his nature often was, he was bull-headed to a fault and wouldn’t let it go.
I want to be like that, he had said, his eyes wide and earnest in the chill moonlight seeping through a curtain at the window, Nishiki curled up close to him so that Kiryu could whisper into his ear. They were the only ones that could know, and it always felt good to have a secret with Kiryu.
After that, Nishiki thought about it for a while. Cars and girls seemed nice. Money seemed nice—they both agreed on that, after years of not enough of anything. But somewhere along the way, Nishiki’s top priority had stopped being so much about having a girlfriend and a flashy watch and a fast car and men to bow at his feet, and had started to focus dizzyingly around the new terror that he and Kiryu ended once high school did. He wanted to stay by Kiryu’s side. They were friends, after all, weren’t they? Best friends. Brothers.
He thought about Kiryu all the time. It had stopped escaping his notice that Kiryu didn’t do the same.
With the first few packets of payment for collection jobs, Kiryu rented a run-down apartment under the table, the tatami there so worn as to have holes in it, the tiny windows rickety and resistant under Nishiki’s touch so that he had to put all of his weight into it when he pulled them open on summer nights. The two of them tended to spend their hours after collections spread out on the floor, sweaty and shirtless with at least six empty cans of beer on the table, Nishiki far too close to giggling at Kiryu drunkenly attempting push-ups. It was nice, comfortable, close.
Nishiki dreamed there, eyes unfocused as he looked at the scuff marks on the walls. For himself, he wanted something nicer, maybe an apartment that overlooked the city, with dark hardwood floors and western architecture. At the very least, he’d settle for something that had been built in this century. And he wanted a closet full of good suits, not the scratchy, sub-ten thousand yen ones that filled his closet now.
Kiryu only had one suit. He gave the rest of the closet space to Nishiki, just like he slept on the couch and let Nishiki have the futon, just like he shrugged and never minded that Nishiki was still crashing here instead of finding his own place, claiming to be saving up yet secretly scared to be truly apart for the first time in their lives.
Sometimes, it stung that Kiryu had turned him down gently but surely when he’d suggested that they be roommates after they moved out, even though that was essentially what they were now, with Kiryu paying rent and Nishiki buying dinner and drinks, the kind of exchange they did best. Maybe I’m sick of seeing your face after all these years, Kiryu had teased before they left the orphanage. Nishiki had taken it to heart and let it consume him for a few hours before he got drunk on a stolen shot of gin that had been locked up in Kazama’s office, then slept the pain off. Kiryu didn’t need him, he knew that. He just liked Nishiki’s company. It stung, yeah. Should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t.
A year came and went since they’d left, and winter had set in now, Nishiki teasing and fussing when Kiryu walked around and said he didn’t need a jacket, despite how he was shivering, despite how his fingers were too stiff to light his cigarette for himself. Nishiki, hands warmed in expensive calfskin gloves, ended up lighting it for him with his own lighter that Kiryu nevertheless pocketed afterward. You make enough not to be stingy anymore, he said, but while Nishiki protested, he also somehow liked the thought of having a piece of him on Kiryu. He had finally landed his own apartment, so they saw less of each other even with dinner and drinks, and he wanted to know that Kiryu thought of him sometimes too, even if it was just when he looked at his lighter.
He was trying to adjust to life on his own, trying not to miss going home with Kiryu every night. They’d celebrated his new apartment, once, and he’d joked about how out of place Kiryu seemed to feel there. It was true; Nishiki wore the wealth of this lifestyle better than Kiryu. It had appealed to him from the very first seed of an idea, but Kiryu was different—there was something inside of him that thought he’d never be able to live on the good side of life, but he’d be as good as he could be on the bad side. Nishiki loved that about him just as much as he hated it.
Tonight was a rarity, the comfortable, shitty familiarity of Kiryu’s apartment wrapping securely around Nishiki, and a case of beer and hot pot on the table, haphazardly-chopped veggies and late-night half-price beef boiling away in a chipped pot.
Nishiki was already plotting about how he’d stay too late, ready to protest and say that he’d do it himself when Kiryu inevitably suggested he’d call a taxi for him after dinner. His next big purchase was going to be a car, and then he’d claim to be too drunk to drive back. These were special occasions now. He had to savor them.
Neither of them were particularly decent at cooking, and they were tipsy besides, but the meal was good enough that they finished all of it, then complained when there wasn’t more. Finally, they settled in with another beer apiece in defeat. Nishiki leaned back against the wall and tried not to feel that painful knot in his stomach when he looked at Kiryu for too long, sprawled on the tatami with his eyes closed, his lips chapped and pursed slightly, brows furrowed so that Nishiki knew he was still awake.
He was close enough to touch, but he felt so far away. Nishiki hated how much he thought of that these days, remembering when they slept in the same bunk bed, when Kiryu was close enough that Nishiki could dangle his upper half over the side of the top bunk, clutching onto the frame for dear life with one arm and reaching with the other to shake Kiryu awake until he sighed sleepily and dragged Nishiki down and under the covers. Nishiki’s excuse was that he’d had a bad dream, but it really happened much less often than he claimed.
He’d always liked being a little too close to Kiryu. Sometimes he wondered where that patience would end.
Nishiki crawled a little closer now, eyes on the silver chain that had fallen into the dip of Kiryu’s throat, lean and strong and, in this moment where Nishiki had downed just enough beer to be brave enough to finally think it, ripe for the touch of his hands, his mouth, his teeth.
Somehow, he had hesitated to touch like this since he was old enough to want it beyond just the desire for comfort. But he did so now, his fingertips coming to rest lightly on Kiryu’s neck. It fascinated him and he didn’t know why, seeing Kiryu’s pulse suddenly thump harder under his touch, yet he found himself pressing a little more firmly until Kiryu’s eyes fluttered open, wide and brown and so soft.
He wondered if this was the only way he’d ever touch Kiryu’s life. He was scared that it was, even though he knew it wasn’t true, even though he knew he was important to Kiryu. Just not the way he wanted to be, a traitorous part of his brain said. He shook it off, told himself he could be alright with friends. He could be alright with touching. But it never stopped aching, and he always found himself thinking about how he was doomed to love Kiryu but never to be loved in return. Not the way Nishiki craved, not the way he needed. And he needed so bad, always, a gaping nothingness inside of him that felt like it could never be filled.
“Kiryu,” Nishiki whispered. The sound of traffic was never silent, not even a little ways out from Kamurocho, especially not through these thin walls. He wondered if Kiryu’s neighbors could hear, if they sensed his desperation. “Kiryu.”
“Nishiki?”
“Kiryu.” Nishiki’s mouth was dry, his chest tight, breaths hard to get out. “Kiryu... you know I love you, don’t you?”
He shouldn’t have said it. It had been his secret for years, for him and him alone. The longing with which he looked at Kiryu when Kiryu wasn’t looking back at him, the way he lived for the sight of his wry little smile forming crinkles at the corners of his eyes, that was between Nishiki and the darkness of his own heart, and freeing it into the world seemed wrong, somehow.
Kiryu said nothing for several moments, and then, almost pained, “Nishiki...”
The thought of being rejected wasn’t what hurt Nishiki the most. He’d always known from the very start that Kiryu couldn’t love him like that; he didn’t need to hear it to know that it was the truth. What hurt was the thought of Kiryu’s pity. He wouldn’t be able to take that. He’d always needed so much more than Kiryu could give him, and Kiryu always let him push until there was nothing left to take, that small sadness in his eyes like he regretted not having more of himself to give. But please not pity, Nishiki thought.
He leaned down slowly, and Kiryu didn’t turn away. He closed his eyes, long lashes falling darkly over his cheeks so that he didn’t have to look back in Nishiki’s eyes when their lips pressed together. That hurt, too, but for a moment he forgot it, filled with wonder by how warm Kiryu was. He always was; it made Nishiki sweat, made him nervous, like he shouldn’t be so close to Kiryu. It felt like getting too close to the sun.
Kiryu’s lips were soft and a little scratchy and Nishiki felt himself tearing up at how right they felt and how wrong he knew it must’ve been. His hand, forgotten on Kiryu’s neck, suddenly squeezed down harder, his fingers shaking.
“Kiryu...”
Kiryu’s voice was raspy with the press of Nishiki’s hand. “Nishiki.”
“I... please—” Nishiki choked up a little, the tears falling freely as he pushed against Kiryu’s hip, hard from being so close to him, from Kiryu not pushing him away.
That was the thing about Kiryu. He’d suffer and sacrifice and probably even die for Nishiki’s sake, and he’d never treat it as a burden. But it was all about duty for him, in the end.
Nishiki stifled a sob as he reached down, brushing his hand over the front of Kiryu’s pants. It surprised him to find Kiryu starting to get hard too, the realization practically punching the breath out of him, and he exhaled harshly as he unzipped Kiryu’s pants, reaching inside only to pause, frantic. He looked to Kiryu for any kind of sign, but his eyes were closed, so Nishiki took a deep breath and jerked him off a couple times, shaky and disbelieving. The angle was awkward and troublesome but worth it for the way Kiryu’s eyes opened and went wide, deep dark brown even under the harsh fluorescent light. He gasped quietly, pushed up.
“I love you, Kiryu,” Nishiki whispered. More, more, chanted the part of him that wasn’t satisfied, and he kept his eyes on Kiryu’s as he tugged his pants down the rest of the way, slipping them off over his socked feet. He thought about getting his mouth on Kiryu, thought about how good it would feel to make him feel good, to be the one giving that to him.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the only chance he’d ever have at this. After so many nights of seeking out guys that looked like Kiryu only to disappoint when their big, sweet eyes didn’t come with his grumpy, furrowed brow, or when they had his shy little smile, but not those fondly biting comments that he saved for Nishiki and Nishiki only —after so many nights of wanting, he couldn’t give this chance up.
He held his breath as he reached for the beaten-up old dresser drawer that Nishiki knew contained a scattering of socks, and underneath, lube and dirty magazines that Kiryu would claim didn’t belong to him. It was like waiting to have his hand be smacked for sneaking treats before dinner, but Kiryu just watched him do it, his eyes unreadable. Or maybe Nishiki didn’t want to read them. Maybe Kiryu did pity him; after all, wasn’t it so like him to give everything, even at his own expense? Too selfless, too patient, too forgiving. He shouldn’t have given that to Nishiki, undeserving as he was.
Kiryu looked at him like that in silence as Nishiki hurried to slick his fingers up, not taking his time the way he wanted to. He hated the tiny span between when he put the lube down and when he pressed his fingers carefully against Kiryu’s hole, not enough time at all for him to really appreciate the sight of his parted lips and the smooth line of his stomach where Nishiki had pushed his shirt up, or the strong muscles of his thighs as Nishiki nudged them a little further apart with his own knees. All he could do was revel in the quiet gasp that disturbed the hand around his throat and the way he bit his lip, untensing himself slowly until Nishiki could open him up to make room for himself, the way he’d always wanted so badly to be a part of Kiryu, inextricable.
He hurried to push his own pants down, sloppy with the lube when he coated his cock. It felt too good for him to finally push inside, collapsing down so that his face pressed against Kiryu’s collarbone, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. It was too good to be real, too good to be felt by him, and he moaned as he jerked into Kiryu, trying not to press too hard on his throat and failing at it, so that Kiryu’s breaths stuttered above him.
“Kiryu...” he gasped, reaching down and wrapping his empty hand around his cock, though it took him a good minute of thrusting to remember that he should. Kiryu had softened up a bit but a few tight strokes got him hard again, thick and leaking in Nishiki’s palm, the feeling of which left Nishiki wishing he’d taken at least a second to suck him off.
He didn’t know if he made Kiryu feel good, in the end. Just that he came across his own stomach a little while after Nishiki came inside of him, stroking him nice and slow while Kiryu made soft gasps of pleasure beneath him, his hips pushing up into his grip when Nishiki’s hand tightened the tiniest increment around his throat.
They lay there together for a while, Nishiki curled against Kiryu, needing comfort from him and feeling guilty for it. He didn’t want to pull out, but he did, his own breath coming free in a heave at the pain of separation, of knowing he’d never have that again. Lashes fluttering wetly against his skin, he went to the bathroom, found a washcloth and wet it so that he could wipe his face and sob into it, once, twice, quiet and begging the cloth to silence him. When the blotches faded on his cheeks, he came out and cleaned Kiryu up too.
That night, he went home early. Kiryu said goodnight, and he said nothing.
The next night, Kiryu smiled at him when they met up for work. He didn’t bring up the night before and neither did Nishiki. He knew better. Last night was last night—it was the past, now.
In a few months, they’d complete their sakazuki, if Nishiki was lucky, if he could keep that smile on Kiryu’s face, if he didn’t overstep his bounds again, if they both could just forget. After that? Who knew. Someday Kiryu would stop indulging him, he was sure. All Nishiki had left inside now was the terror that the day was far too close at hand when the darkness inside of him could eclipse Kiryu’s goodness, or maybe he worried that it already had.