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He’s got his face buried in the crook of Gentaro’s neck, sometimes biting, mostly kissing, as he thrusts in again, again, chasing his climax. Underneath him Gentaro is quiet save for the weight of his breath, save for his fingers clawing at Dice’s back. Dice wants to hear him, so he goes faster, faster, rhythm erratic but no less deep, and when he hears the softest moan, takes a moment to savor his triumph. It’s all he needs to tip him over the edge, groaning Gentaro’s name into a mess of brown hair—no more biting, now. Only kissing.
Gentaro’s already come before him, so he doesn’t linger inside, rolling off and immediately reaching for a cigarette on the nightstand. He has to sit up to get to the lighter, but before he can, a voice interrupts him in his tracks.
“Who’s Gentaro?”
Dice glances to his side, and rolling the flint wheel sparks light in the darkened room enough to illuminate the face in bed with him.
He feels sick.
“Huh?” he says, feigning obliviousness, but bile has risen in his throat and he’s never been a very good actor.
“Who’s Gentaro?” The other guy presses, arms now folded behind his head, like it doesn’t bother him at all.
“Oh. Sorry. Probably got confused.”
“Don’t give me that shit. I never even gave you my name.”
Dice turns away suddenly, as if on autopilot, to put the cigarette and the lighter back on the nightstand as he stands up from the bed in search of his clothes.
“Well?”
“What’s it matter to you?” he snaps, or tries to, but it comes out in a mumble instead. Pathetic. He hears a scoff as he pulls his pants on.
“You’re messed up, man.”
Dice looks up then, noting what he can of the guy’s features in what little light is coming in through the window. Wavy brown hair, curling gently around his face. Soft, languid features. Softer hands. And there’s the stuff learned through observation, like the hushed tone of his voice. It’s no wonder why he—
But the rest of him was all wrong, down to the coarseness of his words.
This had been a bad idea from the start.
“Don’t think I know?” says Dice as he tugs on his shirt, coat draped over an arm instead like he can’t afford even the short amount of time between wearing it and making it out the door.
Nameless shrugs, saying nothing more—or saying something too late—as Dice leaves. He’s all wrong.
(Gentaro would’ve never passed up the chance to get the last word.)
It’s a good thing Dice didn’t light that cigarette after all; he might’ve just chewed through the filter stuck between his gritted teeth.